


Love Me Twice, Save Me Thrice

by wittyy_name



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Blood, Eventual Smut, Faerie Courts, Falling In Love, Fey Allura, Fey Hunk, Fey Lance, Fey Shiro, Half-Fey Keith, Human Pidge, M/M, Magic, Modern Faerie, Modern Fantasy, Mutual Pining, Strangers to Lovers, Violence, faith trust and pixie dust, tattoo parlor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 157,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittyy_name/pseuds/wittyy_name
Summary: Keith has always lived his life by a few simple rules that boil down to one ultimatum: never let the fey know he’s an ironblood. The byproduct of the rare union between a fey and a human, he’s seen as dangerous. Able to harness the power of his fey bloodline without the drawbacks that keep them in check. He doesn’t remember much of his life before Shiro found him, but things have been pretty good since. Despite the fact that his guardian-turned-brother-figure is a fey, his best friend is a druid, and his dog is a blink wolf, his life is pretty ordinary.That is, until he runs into a beautiful fey with eyes like ice and a touch like fire. A fey that makes him want to break the rules and calls out to a part of him that’s remained shrouded for so long. With their lives irrevocable intertwined, drawn to one another despite all the warnings, they’re set on a path that threatens to destroy who they are and save who they might become.The course of love never did run smooth.______________A modern faerie au - featuring fey Lance and half-fey Keith
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 363
Kudos: 1109





	1. Never Let Them See You Stare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back with another long, multi-chapter klance fic?
> 
> I started this fic over a year ago after lamenting that there weren't any fey aus that were complete. Nothing that quite scratched that itch. So... create what you want to see in the world, right?
> 
> The vibe of this story was very heavily inspired by the Tithe series by Holly Black. Not in story, and not even in the world building (this is similar but pulled from more sources of faerie folklore, stitched together myself), but in vibe. In the feeling of it all. In the essence of a darker modern faerie story.
> 
> I poured a lot of heart and soul into this fic, and I'm extremely proud of it. I hope you all enjoy the ride. As always, happy reading <33

Even on the subway, Keith can see the faint fog of his own breath.

He hunches further in his seat, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. He tucks his chin into the folds of his scarf, hiding his chapped lips in the thin layers of warmth. One earbud peaks out from the collar of his jacket, fitted snugly in his ear and blasting pulsing waves of his traveling playlist.

The other earbud hangs uselessly in front of him. Paranoia keeps him from using it when he’s in public, not wanting to completely blind his senses that way. Sight is all well and good, but in a world where there are creatures who do as they please, being more aware of his surroundings is warranted.

With the pulse of music in one ear, he listens to the general din of the train with the other. The hum as they slide over the rails. The shaking of the train cars as they bump and shift. The low, hushed sound of voices deep in conversation he can't make out. The occasional sharper voice of someone who doesn't care if they're overheard.

He stares straight ahead, out of the grime covered windows. It's dark as they speed through tunnels, and he's left to focus on his own reflection. Messy hair, tucked beneath a black hat. Lip ring hidden where his mouth is tucked into his scarf, but his eyebrow piercings glinting where his bangs part.

Hunched and disgruntled, he blends in with the rest of the afternoon crowd.

The people sway as the train moves. A forest of solitary beings. Lost in their own bubbles. Trapped in time together. In the liminal space that travel on the subway provides. Stuck in a moment of in-between. Waiting with blank faces and distant eyes.

While his eyes fixate on his own reflection, he stays aware of those around him, keeping watch through his peripheral vision and the occasional drift of his gaze. It's out of habit more than anything. It's very rare he ever sees one of _them_ on the subway.

Fey don't exactly like trapping themselves in moving contraptions made entirely of metal.

As they pull up to the station, however, and the darkness outside the window turns into flashes of concrete pillars and a blur of the crowd, Keith sees them.

Not a lot of them, but they're definitely there. While the train itself is a nightmare incarnate for them, the stations are a hunting ground. Thick with crowds and populated with people only intent on their next destination. The unaware and unassuming make easy targets.

As the train pulls to a stop and the blur of the crowd solidifies, he can see them. Their bodies shimmer faintly, skin and clothes and all. It's their inherent illusion magic. Their glamour. The thing that keeps them hidden from the mortal eye. Wolves in sheeps’ skin.

Humans can't see it, but Keith can. He can see the faint shimmer. The sparkle in the light. And when they shift just right. When they step into shadow. When he sees them just off the center of his vision. He can see through it. Glimpses into who and what they really are.

He can see the horns. The sharp, inhuman faces. The large eyes. The strangely proportioned bodies. The teeth. The claws. The fur.

The high fey have less to hide. Looking more like inhumanly beautiful mortals than anything. Simple coloring and marks setting them apart. Fey like Shiro. But Keith can still see the vague shimmer of their glamour, giving them away for what they really are.

Fey.

Inhuman.

Monsters.

Except for Shiro. But he's a special case.

He pushes himself to his feet with a handful of others, pushing his way off the train while others wait to push onto it. He weaves through the onslaught of the afternoon crowd, careful to keep his distance from those he can see with glamour.

He keeps his eyes up and alert, but never lets his gaze stick to one person for too long. Never a fey. Never let them realize you notice them. That's rule number one. Avoid them is a close second.

He makes his way to the back of the wide platform, toward where a couple of people are pressed up against the back concrete wall. They sit out of the way, but clearly in the open.

The man wears a beanie pulled down far, a few strands of stark white hair sticking out from beneath. The woman's hair is in long braids, her beautiful face a collage of dark and light from her vitiligo. They're both bundled up for the weather, but she looks far more put together than he does.

He sits on a box drum, eyes closed and head bowed as he hunches over, hands moving in a complicated but steady rhythm. She sits on a blanket next to him, voice like a harp as she sings. A dog lays beside her, curled around her back.

Rolo and Nyma, and their dog Beezer.

Not so much his friends but definitely some solid acquaintances. They didn't exactly get off to the best start. They tried picking his wallet, and he chased them down. They tried to get away with the help of their blink dog, but Keith had Kosmo with him at the time.

A sort of friendship formed from then on. One based on the foundations of respect and understanding. Respect for the capabilities of each other, and understanding of the life they all live.

Half breeds. Ironbloods. A byproduct of the rare union between a fey and a human. Somehow born away from the prying eye of the courts and left to fend for themselves in a dangerous world. Caught between the realm of ignorance and a realm that would rather see them dead.

He may not be close with Rolo and Nyma, but he trusts them a hell of a lot more than most. Not to mention Beezer is the only other blink dog Kosmo's able to play with.

He pauses in front of their busking station, pulling his wallet from his back pocket before squatting down. Beezer's head lifts immediately, eyes focusing in on him intently, one bright and intelligent and the other clouded over heavily. Keith tosses a ten dollar bill into their heavy glass money jar before pulling the dog treat from his jacket pocket, holding it out for him to happily take.

Keith scratches him behind the ears before standing, sliding his wallet away and nodding at Nyma. Her lips curl at the corners in the ghost of a smile, nodding her thanks in return. Rolo is too lost in his rhythm to notice.

Then Keith walks away, leaving room for others to surge forward and toss bills into their waiting jar. While Nyma and Rolo's music is good, Keith knows it's not the generosity of human nature that compels the crowd to toss change to the busking duo. He doesn't know what type of fey runs through Rolo's veins, but Nyma once confided in her siren genetics.

It works for them, and he's happy for them. They've managed to find a niche in a world where they don't fully belong.

As he steps away, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, cutting off his music. He pulls it out, unplugging his headphones and swiping to answer.

"What do you want, Pidge?" He asks as he presses the phone to his ear.

"Coffee," comes her voice immediately. "Please, Keith, I'm dying."

He sighs. There's only one place Pidge will drink coffee from these days, and there's no way in hell he's going there. "Get Shiro to go for you."

"He's booked solid all the way up till five."

"Then why don't you go?"

"Because I have to be here to answer the phones and deal with walk-ins and shit." There's the muffled sound of what he presumes is her body flopping over something, followed immediately by a pitiful whine. " _Please_ , Keith? I need caffeine, like, _stat_ , if you want me to be remotely personable today."

"I'll get you coffee, but I'm not going to Shay's." He slips past a thick group of people and finally reaches the stairs, starting the long climb towards daylight.

"No coffee other than Shay's is worth drinking."

"That's debatable."

"It's really not. Shay's coffee is quite _literally_ magical."

"And that's exactly why you shouldn't be drinking it."

"Shiro says it's safe. Dude can't lie, Keith."

"I know, but—“ He's nearly at the top of the stairs when he sees the flash of movement and the thick shine of glamour. It's heavily reflective, which only happens when the glamour's purpose is to obscure the fey completely from mortal eyes, bending the light around them to hide in plain sight.

The fey appears at the top of the stairs, already rushing down them. Not even bothering to weave between people and heading directly toward Keith.

He sighs, long and exhausted.

"Keith?"

"Hold on."

He keeps his eyes resolutely ahead, gazing wistfully at the top of the steps. In his peripheral vision, he watches the shine of the fey dart toward him, all but flying down the steps. He can't move out of the way. If he does, they'll know he can see them. And that? That's a big fucking hell no. Better to take the hit than to let a fey know he has second sight.

So he continues forward, bracing himself in the last moment.

The fey collides hard with his shoulder, shoving past him without remorse and continuing on their way as if he were nothing more than a fly being batted away.

His momentum shifts backwards, balance being thrown. His foot slips more than he anticipated, and in one terrifying moment, he realizes he's falling. He feels the lurch in his chest as his heart leaps into his throat, arms flying out in a futile attempt to save himself.

There's a brief and terrifying moment of weightlessness—

Before he collides with something solid, abruptly stopping his fall.

Time stills. People move around him. He can see his breath fogging in the air as it leaves his lips. He can feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

And slowly, he becomes aware of the fact that he's caught against a man's chest. One hand on his arm and the other wrapped around his waist. The body behind him is warm. Heat seeping through his layers far more than it should. But it's somehow more comforting than it is alarming.

And that, in and of itself, is alarming enough to jumpstart him back into the moment.

"Sorry, I—" He shifts his weight forward once more, getting his footing and balance back as he turns to face the man who caught him. Only to have his words die on his tongue when he realizes that he's not a man at all.

He's a fey.

And he's beautiful.

Sharp features. Dark skin, smooth as silk. Darker dots of freckles cresting high on his cheekbones and a nose that tilts up just a fraction at the tip. Chestnut hair that wisps around his features. Tall. Broad shouldered. Lean and lithe. Dressed, strangely enough, in an oversized jacket that blends in perfectly with the casual crowd but looks oddly out of place with the clean, crispness of his otherworldly beauty.

His eyes, however, are what captures Keith.

Blue. Blue like the crystalline sky at dawn. Blue of the darkest ocean during a storm. Every hue in-between, colliding and pieced together in fractals of color that seem to shift with the light.

Eyes that capture Keith's gaze and hold him frozen as something works its way through him. It starts in his chest, spreading like ice through his veins. Cracking and splintering until something warm and molten oozes out, sinking deep into his core and settling with a simmering, radiating heat.

Every breath is cold, bringing the sharp edge of uncertainty and fear creeping through his lungs. His heart batters against his ribs, tearing and bruising. But his chest is warm, and the warmth spreads until it tingles at the tips of his fingers.

His head swims, vision blurring in that chaotic sea of blue.

And something eats at him. Something in the shadows of his mind. Just out of reach. Just at the tip of his tongue. Something strange and foreign, yet creeping forward with an inherent certainty that can't be placed.

The man's lips curl at the edges into a lopsided smile that lifts his cheeks and crinkles the corners of his eyes, light dancing in the depths. "You should be more careful." His voice is low and private, lilted with playfulness that clashes with the fact that it's strangely breathless.

It's his voice that jars Keith out of his thoughts.

A voice like honey and silk, like the crackling of a bonfire on a cold beach beneath the stars. A voice that tugs at something he doesn't have a name for.

"I—" His voice doesn't sound like his own, easily lost to the rumble of an oncoming train.

He needs to stop staring. He's breaking rule number one. But he can't. Somehow the idea of looking away makes his chest ache more than the twist of fear in his gut if he doesn't.

This man is no ordinary fey. He's a high fey. Keith can tell from his glamour. It appears thin, only obscuring some of the sharpness of his features, some coloring, and the marks on his skin. A thin glamour is all that's needed, but it's still strong nonetheless. It only appears as a faint shine when the light hits him just right. Almost unnoticeable. Much like Shiro's.

A high fey.

A court fey.

He takes a step down, arms slipping away from Keith. And it's only then that he realizes he's been held this whole time, causing a whole new wave of heat to surge upward, warming his neck. Shame. Embarrassment. Something... strange.

The fey takes another step down the stairs, arms falling away from Keith with a lingering reluctance. His smile remains fixed in place, but there's something else in the depths of those eyes. A weariness. A wistfulness.

"I'll see you around," He says, taking another step away. And another. Each one seeming just as reluctant as the first.

His voice is low and whispered, yet it rings in Keith's ears.

It should sound like a threat, and yet instead it feels like a promise. One that has his stomach twisting itself in knots and his veins buzzing with adrenaline.

"Keith?" The faint sound of his name snaps his attention to the phone in his hand, forgotten call with Pidge still going.

He frowns at it, lifting it to his ear. "Sorry, Pidge." His voice doesn't sound like his own. Soft and strained. Breathless and on the verge of cracking, though he doesn't know why.

"Are you okay? You sound like you just saw a ghost."

When he looks back, the fey is gone. Not a trace of him visible in the crowd. A shiver runs down Keith's spine.

Right where he had been standing, a step below Keith, sprouting through cracks in the worn concrete, blooms a single blue forget-me-not.

* * *

For the next week, he takes a different route to work, wishing for all the world that it would get warmer already so he can take his bike again.

He spends the rides more antsy than usual. Glancing around a little more often. Eyes doing double takes whenever he catches a glimpse of shimmering glamour. Flinching whenever he hears a melodic voice or laughter like bells.

He hasn't been this jumpy since he was a kid, with Shiro constantly drilling into him the importance of keeping his secret.

But no matter how many times he looks over his shoulder, no matter how often his gaze sweeps across the crowded platforms and busy streets, he has yet to see that same fey again.

It's strange. Fey are creatures of obsession. He has no doubt that he stood out to that fey on the steps to the subway. Their eyes locked for too long for him to doubt it. The reluctance to leave solidifies his suspicions. And the forget-me-not... well, that _should_ make Keith fear what might happen next.

And it's that _should_ that keeps him paranoid. It's the _should_ that keeps him on high alert for that same face and that same curling smile. He tells himself it's because he _should_ fear him. A fey's obsession is never a good thing. Being noticed by one rarely ends well. And he has more to hide than most.

However, there's something else that thrives alongside his fear. Whenever he sees a flash of glamour catching the light, whenever he hears a low laugh that makes his hair stand on end. Adrenaline spiking, even if it's only momentarily. He tells himself it's the fear that makes his heart race, but he has no logical reason for why it sinks into his stomach when he realizes that it's not him. Not the beautiful subway fey.

It feels an awful lot like disappointment, and the fact that he feels that at all is far more terrifying than holding a fey's attention.

The fact that he might _want_ it.

He shouldn't want it. He doesn't. They're dangerous. _He's_ dangerous. Especially to ironbloods. Half breeds aren't taken lightly by court fey. They're hunted. Kidnapped. What happens next entirely depends on the fey who found them. On the court that found them.

Keith has no desire to end up in a court. Shiro drilled a healthy fear of that into him. And he would know. He used to be a court fey himself until he escaped.

After a week without incident, Keith starts going back to his usual subway route. Back to his usual train and his usual stop. Back to tossing Nyma and Rolo a couple of bills when he finds them set up on his platform. Back to carrying around a couple dog treats just in case he sees Beezer.

Back to his usual walk to work.

He occasionally feels eyes on him. Feels the weight of someone's gaze. But when he turns, there's no one there, fey or human. No one watching him. The hair standing up on the back of his neck and the crawling across his skin, a shiver down his spine, the only indication that his paranoia isn't completely unfounded. His instincts are usually right, and he's learned to listen to them.

Still, he doesn't see the fey from before.

And he tries not to think too hard about the way his stomach knots, leaden and heavy.

* * *

Two weeks after the incident, Keith writes the whole thing off as a one time event, and his paranoia settles back down to the comfortable baseline.

His days settle back into their usual flow. The daily grind picks back up again. Home. Work. Home again. Spends his days with his friends and co-workers. Spends his nights with his dog. It's his usual and his ordinary. He should find comfort in it. And there should be no reason for him to feel the strange hollow in his chest that still hums dully with anticipation every time he comes across a fey.

And he comes across them often. The city is littered with them. Glamoured and cloaked in illusion magic to blend in with the mortal world. They own businesses. They wander the streets. They play their games. Some of them choose to remain invisible to the human eye, going about their business in secrecy.

He's used to seeing them. Used to ignoring them. Used to letting his gaze glance over them as if they aren't there at all. It's gotten to the point where some days, he barely registers them. So caught up in the usual and the habitual that he goes through the movements. Avoidance. Blank expression. Ignoring.

He's been able to see them for his entire life, and there's no longer anything special about them. Most of them are little more than flies. A constant presence that he'd rather avoid and otherwise ignores.

Most of them, anyway.

There are a few exceptions. Shiro being the biggest. Hunk and Shay are alright, but Shay's cafe and Hunk's restaurant cater to too much fey clientele for him to feel comfortable there. Even then, he only trusts them because Shiro had assured him that they're safe.

He has no such assurances about this new fey.

Better to hope their paths never cross again.

* * *

The rumble of his bike beneath him is familiar and comforting. It vibrates through him, rattling his bones and fueling and warmth in his core. Leather seat snug between his thighs. Helmet snug on his head.

On his bike, he feels powerful. He feels in control. He feels freedom. He can go fast. He can weave through obstacles. He doesn't have to worry about avoiding eye contact with passing fey. Here, in the wind, nothing can touch him.

Spring weather is finicky at best, and unpredictable at worst, but the moment a day arrives that's warm enough to warrant taking his bike to work, he snatches up the opportunity with vigor.

The air is still cold, and there's a bite to the wind that nips through his layers, but it's worth it. The adrenaline buzzing through his veins keeps him warm, and the familiar excitement warms his core with nostalgia.

The only unfortunate part of driving to work is the fact that the last part of the drive is through the city. Which means thicker traffic and more stop lights.

He rolls up to a red, keeping several feet between his front tire and the bumper of the car in front of him. Combat boots on the asphalt for balance, he sits back a little, waiting for the light to turn.

Impatience flits through him, but there's a prickling at the back of his neck that's new. Instinct has his head turning before he realizes what the feeling is, eyes sweeping past the cars around him, over the people moving along the sidewalk, right over a familiar face in the crowd—

His eyes snap back. Lock onto a blue gaze that has shivers running down his spine. He's wearing his helmet with a tinted visor, and yet he swears the fey is looking right at him. Feels their eyes lock no matter how impossible it seems.

It's the same one from before. The same casual, oversized jacket that blends him into the crowd but stands out against his polished face. Smooth dark skin. Waving chestnut hair. Eyes like the sea and the sky melding together. Features pointed and angular, with a faint shimmering of glamour that makes it look like tiny crystals hiding beneath his skin where the light hits.

He stands on the street corner, still as a stone in a river of people. His hands are in his pockets, posture casual but body fully facing Keith.

And slowly, so slowly, Keith watches his lips curl into a lopsided grin.

A loud honk makes Keith jump, head whipping forward to find that the light has turned green and the car in front of him is already speeding away. How long had he been frozen there, staring down a fey?

 _Dangerous_ , his mind whispers, sounding an awful lot like Shiro.

He leans forward, grabbing the handlebars and revving the engine. He lifts one foot off the ground, bike already starting forward.

He glances to the side once more, gaze pulled there by a sharp tug he can't ignore.

But the fey is gone, and Keith peels away from the light, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. A hum of energy buzzes through his veins. An adrenaline far too sweet to be fear.

* * *

His home isn't the biggest, nor the fanciest, but it's home.

A simple two bedroom house, with a sizable living room, a decent kitchen, and a large basement that him and Shiro have designed to be their own personal gym. And the best part? It has a big backyard that's unruly and unkempt, but perfect for Kosmo to run around in.

It's the home Keith has grown up in, ever since he was a teenager, lost and alone, and Shiro took him in. Located just outside of the city, in an old neighborhood that presses up against the forest. Close enough to the bustling city to keep most fey away, but close enough to nature that Shiro doesn't feel out of place himself. Within walking distance of a train station. Fitted with a garage for Keith to work on his bike.

It's perfect for them, and it has been for ten years.

He lounges on their worn leather couch, propped up against pillows, legs stretched across the cushions. Snuggled under a blanket and trapped by a large dog lying across his legs. Kosmo's head rests on his stomach, and he idly runs his fingers through the thick fur. Eyes on his phone, scrolling through apps with his other hand. Their tv plays across the room, giving off the only source of light.

He hasn't bothered to get up and turn on a light since the sun went down.

He hadn't had appointments, so Shiro had let him go early. He'd spend the evening ordering take out, training in the basement, taking a long hot shower, and finally curling up with Kosmo to binge Netflix.

Despite the late hour, and the fact that the parlor closed two hours ago, Shiro isn't home yet. He'd said he was going out. _With a friend_ , he said. Like he's too embarrassed to admit he's with Adam. He'd told Keith not to wait up for him, but that's never stopped him before, and it's not going to stop him now.

Call it paranoia. Call it a habit. All he knows is that whenever Shiro's out late, Keith can't sleep until he gets home.

Maybe he just doesn't want to sleep until he's certain that Shiro is home, safe and sound.

Maybe he just can't sleep alone for fear the fey might find him, though that's never been an issue in the ten years they've lived here.

He doesn't know. He doesn't think too hard on it. It's been a habit since he was young, and Shiro would find him passed out on the couch and have to carry him to bed. Either way, he's not as worried now as he used to be. There's not the overwhelming itch of anxiety, and he doesn't flinch at every sound or creak of the house. Shiro can fend for himself, and so can he. He can take care of himself, Shiro made sure of that. And besides, he's not alone. He has Kosmo—

The wolf lifts his head, ears perked as he swivels around to stare out the back door, golden eyes bright and intense. Keith's gaze snaps to him immediately, feeling the way the wolf tenses on his lap. Kosmo's nostrils flare, eyes briefly flashing as a shiver runs through him, briefly disrupting his glamour as his fur shifts color in a wave before returning to its normal, mortal state.

He's a flurry of movement, leaping over the back of it and pulling up abruptly at the door, nosing the seam of it and whining impatiently.

Keith freezes, air stilling in his lungs as his heart clenches, tight and painful in his chest. Then he's off the couch in a moment, throwing the blanket off of him and rushing to the back door. Fingers hesitating on the handle, he squints through the glass door and into the dark of the night.

He can't see anything. Not a shadow or shift of movement. Not a sparkle or shine of glamour.

But that doesn't mean there's no one there.

There's only one reason Kosmo ever gets like this, and that's if there's an intruder on his territory. And if it was startling enough to cause his own fey energy to flare, then...

He should stay inside and keep Kosmo with him. They’re safe within the threshold of their home. Still, there’s an itch beneath his skin and a tug in his chest.

He opens the back door, and Kosmo darts off into the night. Hit with a wave of cold air, Keith shivers. But he steps past his own threshold all the same, driven by curiosity and a tug he feels pulling against the rapid beat of his heart.

The stone patio is cold against his bare feet. The air crisp against his exposed skin. The chill sinking easily past the thin material of his worn t-shirt and loose pajama pants.

Running his hand through his hair, he closes his eyes, inhaling long and deep. He holds it until his lungs ache, and then lets it out slowly, forcing his body to relax.

He feels his magic unwind from his core. Uncoiling from the tight knot he keeps it in. Unfurling in long, wisping tendrils that lick through his chest like tongues of flame. Warmth seeps into his veins, bubbling in his blood and chasing away the sinking chill. Until his body stops shivering and he feels more in control.

His eyes open, adjusting to the darkness. He feels stronger like this. With his own magic diluting the blood in his veins. It’s comforting and familiar. It makes him feel... whole.

But it's dangerous, and he'll deprive himself of this warmth on a daily basis if it means fey won't be able to sniff him out.

Creeping forward, he follows after Kosmo with slow and measured steps. His shoulders hunch slightly, right arm held out at his side, outstretched, palm up. The symbol on his inner forearm aches, pulsing with a need, poised and ready. He feels the sharpness of the dagger pressing against his skin, just below the surface. Feels the tip of it digging into his palm. His fingertips tingle with anticipation.

Their yard is a wilderness, chaotic and yet strangely designed. Their grass is long and soft, but never grows too much. Thick and plush against the soles of his feet. Their tall fence is covered in vines and lined with shrubs and trees. Shiro's garden, tucked close to the house, looks unkempt, but it never grows weeds.

Kosmo sniffs around a corner of the yard, nose to the ground as he paces. He lifts his head as Keith nears, ears still perked forward.

"What is it?" Keith asks, voice a whisper.

Kosmo meets his gaze, golden eyes sharp, but he tilts his head to show his confusion. His ears swivel, and he turns away. Nose back to the ground, he paces the yard once more, moving from the spot in a widening circle.

Keith feels himself relaxing. The anxiousness slipping away as Kosmo continues his search, intrigued but no longer on guard. The sharpness under his skin fades, the pulsing on his forearm dissipating. The vibrations in his veins eases away, and the lashing of his magic calms into a softer pulse of warmth. Just enough to keep the chill of the night at bay.

Whatever fey had been near their home is gone now. Probably just passed through their yard and had no idea the home was inhabited by a half breed and a blink wolf.

But because curiosity is a powerful thing, instead of going back toward the house, he steps forward instead. Moving to get a good look at the spot Kosmo had initially been inspecting.

The air freezes in his lungs, lips parting as his eyes widen.

There, growing innocently in the corner of their yard, is a thick cluster of blue forget-me-nots.

He knows he should ignore them. Perhaps burn them. He knows he should go back into the house with Kosmo and lock the doors. Maybe call Shiro and finally tell him about the fey he ran into on the steps to the subway. His head aches, whirling and dizzy, shouting at him to _run_. To get past the threshold of his house where the fey cannot follow.

But while his head swims, his heart _burns_.

He finds himself kneeling in the sea of grass. Finds himself reaching out with his left hand to gently cradle the flowers while the dagger presses out of the palm of his right, neatly cutting the flowers from the earth before disappearing back into his flesh.

And only then does he stand, flowers held close to his chest, and hurry back into the house. Kosmo follows at his heels, and Keith casts one last look over their yard before sliding the door shut. Locking it. Pulling the curtains closed to keep them hidden.

Keith has trouble sleeping that night, even after Shiro gets home. Curled up in his bed with Kosmo sleeping at his back. Eyes gazing across the dark room to where the cluster of forget-me-nots sit innocently in a glass of water.

He hasn't told anyone about the fey he keeps seeing, and he doesn't know why.

He brings the forget-me-nots to work with him the next day and sets them up on his station, and he doesn't know why.

Shiro's gaze narrows in on them, lips pursed into a small frown. But he doesn't ask, and Keith doesn't tell him.

And he doesn't know why.

* * *

Keith sits back on the stool, eyeing his work critically, lips pressed into a thin scowl. " _PIdge!_ " He calls, drawing out her name.

"What'd you want?" Comes the reply, slightly muffled through the walls but sharp all the same.

"Come here. I need your opinion!"

"I'm busy. If you want my input, _you_ come _here_."

Sighing, he scoops his ipad off the desk, rubbing his eyes as he makes his way out of the back room. He hasn't been getting much sleep lately. Every time he gets to the cusp of unconsciousness, he wakes with a start, torn from dreams that are fragmented and shadowed, blurred and scratchy in his memory.

The main room of the Black Lion Tattoo Parlor is a wide open space, divided into a wall of tattooing stations, a corner of couches to lounge on, and the entryway. Decorated simply but impeccably. Forest green walls and imagery of plants and forest scenes, metal decorations hanging made from bronze so Shiro can actually touch them.

He heads through it to get to the glass double doors, leading back into Pidge's piercing sanctum. One of the doors is ajar, and he can see her inside, sitting on a stool and organizing the jewelry they keep in stock.

"Hey," he says as he enters, moving to lean back against the counter beside her.

"What's up?" She asks, straightening and turning to try to get a peek at his ipad screen.

He holds it out to give her a better look. "I'm working on the design of Matt's tattoo, and I wanted your input. What'd you think about this one?"

Pidge hums, taking the tablet from him and using her fingers to turn and zoom in, eyes narrowed and lips pursed in thought. Keith waits, arms crossed loosely over his chest. "I like where you're going with it," she says. "But I think it might be getting a little too complicated for Matt's tastes. He wants something that _looks_ simple, even if it's not, you know?"

Keith nods, leaning over to shift the image on the screen. "So what if I cleaned up this part a little bit. Got rid of the vines and made it more simple shapes? Interlocking to look more complex?"

"Yeah, yeah, I like that. Maybe make the eye more geometric, too? Less like a realistic eye."

"I can do that." He takes his ipad back, lips pursed as he looks over his sketch. "I'll clean it up and text him later to see what he thinks—"

The brass bell over the door to the parlor chimes, and they both turn, despite the fact that they can't see the front door from this room. "I'll play you for it."

He turns back to Pidge, who's already holding a fist out. "Nope," he says, shaking his head, a triumphant smirk curling his lips. "I got the last walk-in. This one is all you."

"Goddammit," she groans, sliding off her stool and trudging toward the door. She points a finger at him as she leaves, eyes narrowed for good measure. "But you have to get the next one."

He gives her a small salute, still smirking as he looks back down at his tablet. The design for Matt's tattoo only requires a few more adjustments. He can probably get him in for a real appointment soon, though he had said he wanted to wait until his next paycheck.

"Hey, what can we do for you?" He hears Pidge say, but there's something off about her voice. It's briefly hesitant and the smile in her voice sounds strained. If he didn't know any better, he might've just chalked it up to a typical customer voice. But he's worked with Pidge for over a year now, and she's never more than casually and unapologetically herself around customers.

There's only one reason for her strained politeness.

Fey aren't uncommon customers at the Black Lion. While they have a mostly human clientele, and they don't exactly advertise to fey, Shiro does have a few customers come in for more... magical tattoos. He only caters to fey he trusts. Ones he knows won't cause trouble. And none of them know that Keith and Pidge know of their existence. As far as the fey world is concerned, Shiro is just a low rung domesticated fey with a human tattoo parlor as a front for the fey tattoos he does on the side.

And while he knows Pidge is perfectly capable of playing her role as an unsuspecting human, that doesn't stop him from moving forward, fully intending to place himself in the room as silent back up should she need it.

"Hey."

His steps falter as he hears the new voice. Heart clenched and twisting. The hollow deep in his chest pulses, sending a writhing wave of static throughout Keith's body. He knows that voice, but despite how violently his body reacts to it, there's only one memory he can drudge up.

The steps to the subway station.

"I'm here to see Shiro. He should be expecting me? Name's Lance."

"Right, sure. I'll go get him." He sees Pidge walk past, steps brisk and clipped, not even bothering to glance in his direction as she makes her way to the door leading to Shiro's office. "Hey, Shiro! There's a customer here for you."

Movement catches his eye. The man steps slowly after Pidge, pausing in the middle of the parlor. Skin light brown. Hair wind swept. Body glimmering faintly. Just the vaguest shine to indicate his glamour, concentrated in his hair, ears, and cheeks. Hands shoved into the pockets of his oversized jacket.

Keith's heart bruises his ribs, ears ringing as a rush of adrenaline sweeps through his veins. But the fey isn't looking at him. He's turned away, eyes roaming over their tattooing stations— until he gets to Keith's.

He freezes, and Keith knows exactly what he's looking at.

The small bouquet of forget-me-nots sitting innocently in a small, cheap vase. They haven't withered at all since he cut them from his yard. Petals just as pristine as ever. A spot of blue in the forest of green and bronze.

The fey turns slowly, swiveling around to face Keith where he stands frozen in the piercing room. His breath hitches when their gazes lock, unable to stop the wave of static that rushes through him, remaining as a vague tingle in his fingertips.

The fey's eyes are wide, uncertain and surprised. Lips lax and parted. Not at Keith's presence. No, he had found him pretty quickly. But at... the flowers?

"Lance." Shiro's voice cuts through the room, snapping the fey's attention away.

His lips curl into a brilliant grin. "Shiro!" He steps forward to meet Shiro, their hands clasping before the larger man pulls him into a hug. A hug which this Lance melts into, tension leaking out of him.

Keith just continues to stare. Shiro is never this physically affectionate with any of his fey customers. In fact, he's only ever seen Shiro hug a few people ever. Including himself, Pidge, Matt, Adam, and now— and now this Lance.

"Come on, let's speak in my office," he says as he steps away, turning and gesturing for Lance to follow.

Which he does, but not before turning back in the direction of the piercing room. Not before meeting Keith's gaze once more, grin turning coy as he winks. "I like your flowers," he says, voice low but loud enough to carry.

And then he's gone, the door to Shiro's office closing behind them.

He's not sure when he moved, but he finds himself standing in the doorway to the main room. Having stepped forward, tugged by invisible strings, to follow Lance's retreat.

Pidge stands nearby, arms crossed over her chest and lips pressed into a small frown. "That was weird."

"Yeah," he says, mouth feeling dry.

"Do you know him?" She asks, tilting her chin to gaze at him sidelong.

"No," he answers without hesitation. Despite having seen the man before, he definitely doesn't know him.

Yet while he knows it's a truth, it tastes like a lie.

* * *

Lance stays the rest of the day, locked away with Shiro in his office. And while he and Pidge try to eavesdrop, it becomes clear quickly that Shiro put a silencing charm on the room to keep their conversation private.

When it comes time to clock out, they knock on the door to let him know they're leaving. It cracks open just wide enough for Shiro to tell them to go ahead, and to tell Keith that he'll be home later.

He doesn't miss Lance leaning over in his chair to catch his gaze.

Doesn't miss a coy smile that seems almost on the verge of shy once he's caught.

And when he comes in the next day, he swears there are more forget-me-nots in the vase than there were before.

* * *

Pidge's sigh comes out as a low groan, her entire body slumping with it. "Oh my god, remind me to propose to Shay."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Keith says, lifting his own coffee cup to his lips. Heat radiates through it to seep into his fingers, yet he knows it's never too hot to drink. When he sips it, the warmth floods through his veins, staying with him and warding off the chill.

Just one of the many perks of Shay's infamous coffee.

"You're just saying that because she's fey."

"Exactly."

They walk along the brick path through the park, bundled up in jackets and scarves, beanies slouched on their heads. With a coffee cup in one hand, he holds Kosmo's leash with the other. He doesn't need the leash, but law dictates he has one anyway. He trots ahead of them, eyes snapping around the park and nose tilted to the wind.

"Unlike you, I don't have anything against fey human relations."

"It never works out, and it's dangerous."

"Might I remind you that your own lineage says otherwise?" She says, voice casual but pitched low for privacy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her tilt her head in his direction, coffee cup poised near her lips.

He scowls, eyes remaining forward. "And neither of my parents are around anymore, so my point still stands. It's dangerous."

"Yeah, well, if Shay provides me coffee like this for the rest of my life, I'm okay with living a little dangerously. Besides, Shay isn't like most fey. Her and Hunk. I trust them like I trust Shiro."

He hums his acknowledgement, though he's not sure if he agrees with her wholly. While he doesn't mind Hunk and Shay, he doesn't trust them like he does Shiro. He doesn't trust anyone like he does Shiro. Especially a fey, no matter how amiable they may be.

"Your plan won't work anyway," He says instead. "I'm pretty sure she and Hunk are together."

"Lucky bastard."

They stop at a bench and sit down to enjoy the rest of their coffee. It's Monday, one of the only days the parlor is closed, and they've decided to enjoy their free day with a round of Netflix binging. Proceeded by a trip to Shay's for some quality coffee and a walk through the park for Kosmo.

The large canine sits at his feet attentively, back straight and ears on alert as his eyes dart around the park. It's clear he's restless, eyes locking on a couple runners and a few glimpses of other dogs. He won't leave Keith's side, though. Not unless given permission.

Keith reaches out a hand, idly scratching between his ears and digging his fingers through thick fur.

A breeze tugs at Keith's hair, raising goosebumps on the nape of his neck.

After a long, companionable silence, Pidge asks, "Are there any around here?"

He huffs out a sharp breath, voice a low deadpan as he says, "They're always around here. It's the park. It's the closest they can get to nature in the middle of the city."

He sees the roll of her head out of the corner of his eye, knowing that her eyes are doing the same. "You know what I mean."

"Are you picking up anything?" He asks, but his eyes are already sweeping across the park, making note of all the bright reflective gleams of glamour.

"Nope, but your eyes are worth more than my spidey senses."

"There are a few," He says under his breath, turning back forward. "But none close by."

"Cool." She puts her coffee cup to her lips, tilting it back to drain it before setting it aside and rocking to her feet. "Kosmo, what do you say to some fetch?" She asks, stretching her arms high above her head.

Kosmo's head snaps up, eyes zeroing in on her with his ears perked forward. He turns then, eyes seeking out Keith, head tilted to the side. Keith nods, scratching behind his ears. "Go ahead. But _no blinking_."

He gives a barely perceptible nod of his head, intelligence shining in his eyes. They're bright and golden, sharp with understanding. One of the only visible tells that he's no ordinary dog. Keith's magic pressed into Kosmo’s blood keeps his fur a reasonable color and the scent of his own inherent fey nature at bay.

To any mortal, he's just a dog.

To any fey, he's a suspicious dog, but nothing of interest.

To Keith, he's just Kosmo. A blink wolf he found wounded as a pup and has raised ever since. His best friend and closest companion. His only comfort on nights where he was alone and woke from his nightmares with a scream frozen on his lips.

"Let's go, dude," Pidge says, bending to pick up a stick before jogging a short distance away. Kosmo follows at her heels, nearly coming up to her waist.

When she throws the stick, he darts after it, rocketing across the field to leap and catch it midair, landing and running back. Thankfully without blinking.

A breeze rolls past him again, a touch of ice on his skin. He shivers, taking another sip of his coffee to warm himself. The breeze dies down, and he hunches further down in his seat, content to watch Pidge and Kosmo play.

But then the breeze starts up again, and this time he realizes that it doesn't touch the rest of him. He doesn't feel it on the exposed skin of his fingers. He doesn't feel it on his cheeks. When he looks up, he can't even see a trace of it tugging at Pidge's clothes or Kosmo's fur.

Yet there is definitely a breeze, and it is definitely threading through his hair. Twisting it and tugging at it, playful but deliberate. There's the cold touch of phantom fingers on his neck, whispering past with the light caress of the wind.

He shudders, slapping a hand over the back of his neck, almost surprised to find nothing there. He rubs at the spot, willing his goosebumps to go down. Glancing around, he doesn't see any fey, but that doesn't mean they're not there.

He pulls his hat down further before tucking his hand back into his pocket.

But then the breeze starts up again. Tugging at his hair. Threading through where it curls around his neck. It feels far too deliberate, far too localized, and not at all natural.

A shiver of fear starts to coil through him, cold and sour. Curdling the blood in his veins and making his heart clench.

Then there’s a laugh in his ear. Not heard, but not unheard. Soft and drifting on the wind. A low, rumbling chuckle. Foreign, and yet tugging at the frayed threads of familiarity hanging somewhere in the back of his mind. A puff of air against his ear, sending chills down his spine that vibrate to warmth as they near his core.

A strange warmth.

A warmth he blames the effect of Shay's coffee.

He keeps his eyes on Pidge and Kosmo, ignoring the way the wind continues to play with his hair. Ignoring how it tickles at his jaw and ghostly fingers dance across his nape. Ignoring the phantom laughter bubbling on the breeze.

Ignoring the small smile that threatens to pull at the corner of his lips, unbidden and dredged up from a hollow pit in his chest that he's never been able to name.

* * *

Keith runs with only one earbud in, listening carefully past the pounding drive of his music, the beat of his footsteps, and the rush of his own breath.

He doesn't let himself zone out, instead keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings. Keeping a mental tally of all the fey he sees and making sure none of them pay much attention to him until they're too out of sight to worry about.

And it's because he's keeping such a close eye on his surroundings that he sees it.

A girl who can't be any older than twenty. Dressed fashionably for the spring chill. No doubt one of the hundreds of college students who commute through the city to their classes. She's pretty, but by herself, she's fairly unremarkable. Someone that Keith definitely wouldn't have paid much attention to.

If it weren't for the fact that she's following after a man who glimmers in the early afternoon sunlight.

Keith slows automatically, pace dwindling to a standstill as he watches. Hands falling to his sides as his heartbeat rages on, now with something other than physical exhaustion coiling tight in his limbs.

The fey is a tall man, with long dark hair that drifts in a wind that touches no one else. He's dressed simply. No jacket and no shoes. Making it abundantly clear that he's there for an easy meal and not to blend in. His skin is dark, but it shines as if coated with diamond dust. He walks backwards slowly but steadily, hand held out to the girl, urging her onward. His lips move, and while Keith can't hear what he's saying from his distance, judging from the girl's blank expression, he's willing to bet it's some sort of entrancement charm.

He leads her toward the park's lake, stepping back into the waters without hesitation. His smile grows triumphant and eyes hungry as she takes her first step into the gently lapping waves.

He knows enough about fey to know a kelpie when he sees one.

Keith's blood boils, heat unfurling in his chest and needles prickling along his veins. He feels the writhing press of his blade beneath the skin of his forearm, sharp tip pressing at the underside of his palm, begging to be released.

He grits his teeth, hands curled into fists at his side. He stands on the path that winds around the lake, far enough away from the pair to be out of sight among the trees that line it. But if he runs now, he can probably make it to her in time. He can probably drag her back out of the water, no matter how much she kicks and screams. He can probably fight off the kelpie.

But that would expose himself. It would be going directly against Shiro's orders to be cautious and discreet. It would be alerting any fey in the area that he has the sight. His wielding of a blood blade would tell them he has fey blood.

Still, he can't just stand by and watch her die. He doesn't know who she is, and it doesn't matter. She's an innocent, and he can do something to stop it.

And despite the consequences, he knows he will.

Body coiled tight, decision made and stoking the fire inside him, he takes a step forward, right fist already uncurling to release his blade—

He gets only three steps before there's a hand grabbing the back of his shirt, tugging him roughly backwards and making him stumble.

He lands hard on his backside, hands out behind him to catch some of the weight. Gravel digs into the leather of his gloves. His head whips up, scowl in place, bite of an accusation on his tongue—

Only for it to wither to nothing as he sees Lance standing over him. Blue eyes light and sharp as ice, narrowed as he glares down at him, hands on his hips. "What do you think you're doing?" He snaps.

Keith feels his shock start to ease away, melting in the wake of his indignant anger, defensive in the face of Lance's sharp tone. "What are _you_ doing?"

The fey rolls his eyes, lips twisted into a frown. "Stopping _you_ from doing something _stupid_."

He pushes himself to his feet, brushing himself off, blood burning in his veins. "What I do is none of your business."

"I'm making it my business." Lance's eyes narrow, challenge glinting in the ice of his irises. Keith hadn't realized that they've been leaning toward each other, arms crossed over their chests, until he can feel the cold wafting off Lance's skin.

"Yeah? Well, don't," Keith snaps. "Now _move_." He takes a step forward, intent on shoving past Lance, but there are hands on his shoulder, pushing him back.

"Oh no, you don't. Nope. Nu-uh. Not gonna happen." He's firm. Resolute. But he's never been in the face of Keith's stubbornness before.

He slaps the fey's hands away. "I can't just stand here and let her _die_."

Lance's lips press into a thin line, and he turns away, glancing over his shoulder to where the girl is already several steps into the water, moving toward the man waiting chest deep. When he looks back, his eyes are still hard, but the color of them has shifted. Brighter blue. Deeper. No longer the crystalline shade of ice. Lips still pressed tight, he says in a voice that's just as firm and unyielding, "She won't die."

Keith glares, searching his face, eyes flickering over his shoulder to the girl once more. He opens his mouth to protest, but Lance beats him to it.

"You stay here." Hands come down on Keith's shoulders once more, squeezing lightly, as if to ground him to the spot. His eyes flicker back to Lance's, finding they've softened to match the plea in his voice. "Just... _stay here_. I'll take care of it."

"How are you—"

But Lance is already stepping backwards, further down the path, eyes locked on Keith's and pointing at him firmly. " _Stay_."

Keith looks to the lake, where the girl is now knee deep. Each step brings her closer to the kelpie, and with every step, his glamour wavers. Distorting his features. Beginning to show the shape of his true form.

When he looks back to the path, Lance is gone.

And that's when he hears a soft, whistled melody. It dances on the wind, gentle and alluring. Light and lilting, it weaves through the air, calling out to him. He feels the tug deep in his chest. Feels the vibration of compulsion across his skin. Feels the fuzzy lightness in the edges of his mind.

He's been around Nyma enough to know what a siren song sounds like.

He shakes his head, dislodging the melody's tentative grip on him. But the whistled notes hold a steadfast grip on his heart, tugging at something that feels almost reminiscent. He feels his heart rate rise with the welling of a new panic. He's usually unaffected by siren songs. At least Nyma's. He feels the allure, but his own fey blood keeps it from managing to sink into him.

It works on the girl as well. He sees her steps falter. Her eyes, still dazed and blank, blink rapidly as her body stills. Then, slowly, she turns, gazing at something in the trees. She then takes a step back towards land. And then another.

The kelpie's smile falls, twisting into a snarl of outrage. His illusion magic shimmers, briefly showing his equine features and black scaled skin, lips curling to show sharp rows of teeth.

He moves forward, but the girl is already out of the water. And Lance has emerged from the trees, walking steadily toward the lake. Once he's visible, the kelpie freezes, expression unchanging, body writhing beneath the water, but clearly unwilling to move forward.

Lance stops when the girl reaches him, and the whistling fades as he speaks to her, voice too low for Keith to hear. Her expression is still lax, eyes blank and unseeing, but she nods, continuing a trance-like walk back up through the grass, toward the path and away from the lake, oblivious to the fact that her boots and pants are soaked. Though Keith supposes getting sick is far better than becoming a kelpie's next meal.

Lance strides closer to the lake, stopping at the water's edge. He speaks to the kelpie, and while Keith can't make out the words, he can see that the water fey is unhappy about it. But Lance's face is unyielding, and the kelpie squirms under his gaze.

He knows from Shiro's lessons that the kelpie fall under the jurisdiction of the winter court, but they're low on the hierarchy. If Lance really is one of Shiro's old friends, then Keith's willing to bet he's of the summer court. A high fey at that. Despite being of different factions, Lance would have far more power than the kelpie.

Now that the girl is no longer in danger, Keith finds himself stepping backwards. One step, then another, before turning and starting up his jog once more. Lance seems to have it covered, and Keith doesn't really want to stick around to talk when he's done.

Especially when he doesn't know _why_ Lance would bother saving some random human in the first place. Why Lance would bother trying to stop Keith from doing it himself. It could be a promise to Shiro, but...

There's something strange about Lance. Something that sets him off his guard. Something that makes his blood run hot and cold all at once. He's done a kindness today, but Keith knows that fey aren't inherently kind. He doesn’t want to be fooled into thinking Lance is. That would be dangerous.

So he puts as much distance between himself and the lake as possible.

It's not until he's in the shower, getting ready for work, that he realizes that Lance never once questioned how Keith was able to see the kelpie for the danger he is in the first place.

* * *

"Again!" Shiro shouts, voice ragged as he leaps forward, arm cutting down towards Keith once more.

He swings his sword up, catching Shiro's arm on his blade and using his momentum to shove it off to the side. He then swings his arm back in a wide arc, forcing Shiro to jump away.

Keith darts after him, swinging downward. Shiro catches his sword before it hits, his own arm crossed over his body to stop the swing. His body tenses, bracing as he extends his arm, shoving Keith's blade off of him and batting it to the side. Before Keith can recover, Shiro's other arm swings up, elbow cracking him across the jaw at the same time his leg hooks around Keith's ankle.

He falls hard, breath knocked from his lungs on impact. He doesn't bother to get up, staring dazedly at the ceiling of their basement as the world around him spins. His chest heaves with every breath, skin sticky with sweat that soaks into his t-shirt.

"You're rusty," Shiro says, leaning over him. He expects the tease, but the tone is surprisingly void of their usual lightheartedness. Instead, worry furrows Shiro's brows. "You used to see hits like that coming a mile away."

Keith's lips press into a scowl, eyes narrowing on the man above. "We've been training for hours."

"Your endurance isn't what it used to be." Shiro's prosthetic shifts, unfurling from the form of a blade and twisting back into one reminiscent of his missing arm. The glow of it fades, magic fading back into its dormant state. Without his glamour to keep the limb from appearing like an ordinary metal prosthetic, Keith can clearly see the oak it's made from.

As well as the pointed ears, sharper features, solid black irises, and body marks of his fey heritage.

He holds out a hand, and Keith sighs. He lets go of the handle of his sword, and instantly the blade's form dissolves, shifting back to molten purple shadow that absorbs back into his palm. He feels it shift under his skin, prickling like needles as it settles back beneath the symbol on his forearm.

He doesn't know what it means, and Shiro has only ever told him that it's evidence of his fey blood. Once a birthmark, he's inked over it, fitting it into a tattoo of the dagger it forms when brought to life. The dagger sits inked onto his forearm, blade tip pointed towards his palm, the symbol nestled into a gem at the dagger's hilt.

The dagger is nestled into a bed of red roses, throned vines, and blue forget-me-nots. Something he designed years ago, but never bothered to ask himself why. It had just seemed right.

With his blade stored back in his blood, he takes Shiro's hand, letting the man pull him to his feet. "My endurance is fine," he huffs. "You're just pushing harder than you usually do."

Shiro opens his mouth to protest, but closes it shortly after. The way his expression pinches is the usual disgruntled frustration that follows when he catches himself in the midst of a denial he can't voice, as it falls too close to a lie.

Sighing, he turns away, running his fingers through his hair as he goes to pick up Keith's bottle, tossing it at him. "We should start up regular training again. We need to start pushing you. You can't be getting rusty like this."

Keith frowns, lowering the water bottle to his side. "Shiro, what's wrong?"

He sees Shiro's shoulder stiffen briefly at the question, only to relax a second later. "What makes you think something is wrong?" He asks after taking a long, slow drink from his own bottle. When he turns to face Keith, his expression is carefully impassive.

Which only makes Keith's brows furrow more. "You've been more cautious lately."

"There's never a wrong time for caution—"

"You're constantly looking out the shop windows. You ask us if we ran into any fey anytime we leave your sight. You don't let us go to Shay's anymore. Yesterday, you told me to change my running route to avoid the park and practically forbid me from going near the forest." He takes a step forward, and Shiro looks away, brows pinched as he glares at the floor. Keith lowers his voice, trying to soften the sharp edge of his resolve. "I haven't seen you this paranoid since we moved here. Whatever's going on, you can tell me. I'm not a kid anymore, Shiro."

"I know," he sighs, shoulders slumping as his eyes squeeze shut. "I know."

He reaches out, placing his hand on Shiro's shoulder. Hoping to ground him amidst whatever storm is building. "Just tell me what's going on." And then, because he's never had great control over his tongue and curiosity is a beast he's never managed to tame, he says, "Does this have to do with that fey who came into the shop a few days ago? Lance?"

Shiro's eyes snap open, looking at him sharply. Once, the inky darkness of his irises had been strange and foreign to him, straight out of a horror film. But he's since gotten used to it, and has learned to read them. And right now, Shiro is looking at him, sharp and startled, calculated gaze sweeping over his face.

Keith tries to remain impassive and firm under his scrutiny, and whatever Shiro finds makes him relax with another long exhale. "Yes, in a way." He looks away, gaze distant. "Lance is an old friend. He came to warn me."

"Warn you?" Something itches at the back of Keith's mind. An energy that prickles beneath his skin. "About what?"

"It's the courts. Their relationship has always been a tremulous truce, but they're becoming... restless. Lance came to warn me. We don't want unnecessary attention drawn to us."

Keith bites at his bottom lip, teeth lightly tapping against his piercing. "They're not going to call you back, are they?" He asks, voice soft and hesitant. Shiro never told him much about his time spent in the summer court, but from what Keith has been able to gather, whatever exile he's under, they still hold some sort of sway over him.

Shiro looks at him then, smile small and not quite reaching his eyes. "I hope not." He places his hand over Keith's, squeezing it lightly. "I'll do everything in my power to keep them from taking me away from you. Or you from me." Something in his gaze hardens, lips pursing tight. "I don't want to go back to the court anytime soon. Or ever, if I'm being honest."

Keith feels a wry smile tugging at his lips. "You're always honest."

Shiro huffs, fighting down his own smile. "Curse of being a fey." He turns away then, and the air between them feels lighter. "It's nothing to worry about for now. Just... promise me you'll be careful? If only for my own peace of mind."

"I promise," he says without hesitation. Shiro rarely worries without reason, and Keith has learned to trust his judgement. Still, with all this talk of caution and avoiding fey, there's something Keith needs to know. "Hey, Shiro?"

"Yes?" He looks up from where he's leaning against one of the work benches, phone in his hand.

Keith's fingers fiddle with the cap to his water bottle. "About that friend of yours... Lance." Something flickers in Shiro's eyes, but it's gone before he can make sense of it. "Can you trust him?"

"I can." He says it slowly and carefully. A hesitation not born from uncertainty, but from something else. "And I do. Far more than most fey."

"Right." He looks down at the bottle in his hand. His own tattoo catches his eye. Forget-me-nots mingled with roses. When he looks up, his lips are pursed. "Can I?"

Shiro watches him for a moment, face impassive before melting into something softer. Something tired but kind. Exhaustion lines his features, but there's the dim sparkle of what Keith dares to call amusement deep in the darkness of his eyes. "I don't think my answer will impact your decision either way."

His brows furrow as his scowl deepens, irritation sparking at the avoidance. "What's that supposed to—"

"Ready to keep going?" Shiro sets his phone aside, striding back to the center of their sparring circle. He drops into a crouch, right arm thrown out to the side. The wood begins to glow, twisted lengths of oak unfurling and reshaping back into a blade.

Keith sighs, tossing his bottle aside and moving to stand in front of him, mirroring his stance. His skin stings and his blood prickles as his blade emerges from his hand, solidifying as his fingers curl around the handle. "Don't think this conversation is over."

Shiro smirks. "Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

This time, he feels Lance coming before he shows.

The day is warmer than most have been, with the sun high in the sky and warmth radiating down with the promise of an end to winter. It's a day where he can loosen his scarf and unzip his jacket, where the air is cool and refreshing without being cutting.

It's the kind of day where he's feels content to sit on a park bench with his dog at his feet, enjoying the rare early spring sun. And where he doesn't look out of place staring at the lake across the way.

Then there's a shift in the breeze. A chill that wasn't there before, cold and crisp where it drags playful tendrils through his hair and across his nape. There's a soft, rumbling sound. Almost like a chuckle. Just on the edge of hearing. Something he feels and understands, even if he can't quite pick up the sound.

Kosmo lifts his head from where he's curled at Keith's feet, staring at the figure that moves into Keith's peripheral vision. His ears are perked forward, head cocked and curious, eyes sharp and intelligent, but he doesn't move to get up. His hackles don't rise. Not even a growl. In fact, after a brief inspection, he huffs a short breath and lays his head back down, eyes still open and watching, but otherwise relaxed.

Keith takes it as a good sign.

"He's not coming back." Lance says, voice soft but conversational. Smooth as a crisp breeze that has Keith shivering. He stands with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes distant as he stares down the small hill to the lake beyond.

"Who?"

Lance nods toward the still waters. "The kelpie." His head tilts then, eyes sliding to Keith's, lips tugging up into a small, lopsided smile. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To make sure he doesn't prey on anyone else?"

Keith shrugs, letting his gaze drift away. "It's a nice day to sit in the park."

"Despite the fact that Shiro has asked you to avoid this place."

"I've never been great at taking orders." Lance lets out a short puff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. The sound tugs at something in Keith's chest, rising to push at the corners of his lips. But it only lasts a second, and then reality sets in, causing his blooming smile to wilt. He glances sideways, eyes narrowed. "How do you know what Shiro told me?"

Lance shrugs, moving around the bench to sit. There's still a foot or two of distance between them as they sit on opposite sides, yet there's something about it that feels far too informal and far too intimate, and something about him that feels far too comfortable sitting and chatting with this fey.

"Shiro tells me things," He says vaguely.

"Is that why you weren't surprised that I knew what the kelpie was doing? Or that I knew it was a kelpie at all?" He keeps his voice low, but his question pointed. He watches Lance's face closely. "Did Shiro tell you?"

There's a flash of something in Lance's eyes, but it's gone before Keith can identify it, locked away behind a smooth wall of glass, sculpted into the perfect picture of innocent indifference. He looks away slowly, casually, shoulder lifting and falling in a half-hearted shrug. "More or less."

Keith frowns, lips pursed tight. In his pockets, his hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palm. "You know I've been around Shiro long enough to know when faeries are avoiding questions."

Lance remains facing forward, but his eyes cut to Keith's. His lips tilt in a devilish smirk. Amusement dances in the warm blue depths of his eyes. "Then you also know that getting a straight truth when we don't want to answer a question is harder than it seems."

Keith can't help the scoff that leaves his lips, nor the roll of his eyes when he thinks back to all the questions Shiro had expertly avoiding throughout the years. "Yeah, no shit."

Lance looks away, but his grin lingers.

He's not done with that line of questioning, but he knows better than to push a fey when they're already guarding their answers. Better to ask again later, wiggle the truth out of them before they realize what he's doing. So instead he asks, "How are you so certain that the kelpie won't come back?"

Lance's smile remains in place, but it fades from his eyes. There's an edge to his words when he answers. "Because I told him to leave and not return."

"And he listened to you?"

"I claimed this park for the summer court. While the winter court can contest it, it can't be done by one so lowly as a kelpie. He had no choice but to choose another hunting ground."

"Why would you do that?" Keith asks, suspicion creeping into his chest, setting him on edge. Yet his voice comes out far softer than intended.

"Because you're determined to continue to visit this park," he says matter-of-factly, shrugging as if it's of no bigger importance than a statement of the weather. "At least this way there are fewer dangers."

"The summer court is dangerous, too," he counters, careful not to sound accusatory. He knows better than to insult a fey he doesn't know, even if that fey has a way of making him feel strangely comfortable in his presence.

Lance chuckles, but the sound is deep and rumbling, and his voice is wry as he says, "True, but they pose less of a threat to you than the winter court."

Keith stiffens, hair on the back of his neck standing on end as a shiver crawls across his skin. His blood prickles against his veins as his heart hiccups in his chest. Kosmo lifts his head, gazing at him curiously. He reaches out, cupping the wolf's head and digging his fingers soothingly through his fur. "And what threat does the winter court pose to me?" He asks, voice carefully neutral. "Other than the fact that they hate half breeds."

"None," Lance says, voice steely with his certainty. Keith glances up in time to see his eyes flash, bright and clear as ice. "Not as long as I have anything to say about it."

"And why's that?" Keith's fingers pause in his ministrations, and Kosmo whines. He turns to face Lance more fully, eyes searching his face. His skin looks warm in the sunlight, a shimmering of glamour particularly concentrated on his sharp cheekbones, highlighting his eyes. "Why do you care?"

Lance doesn't look at him, but his expression softens to something thoughtful. Something almost forlorn. "I've asked myself the same thing."

"And?"

Lance shrugs, head tilting as a wry smile tugs at his lips. "I haven't found an answer yet."

A silence stretches between them. Keith scratches behind Kosmo's ears, and the wolf's eyes drift shut. He isn't at all threatened in Lance's presence, which is... strange. The only fey he tolerates without suspicion is Shiro.

A breeze rolls past them, warm with the midday sun. Crisp and clean. He can hear the sound of children playing in the distance. The low hum of traffic on the streets around the park. The rhythmic footfalls of runners.

Keith sighs, not so much with exasperation as simple exhaustion. There's a strange buzzing contentment in his chest, fighting off the wariness he knows he should have but can't seem to summon. "What do you want with me?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you want with me?" He repeats, looking at Lance, a small frown pursing his lips.

Lance lifts a brow, face carefully blank. "And if I said I want nothing?"

Keith gives a sharp shake of his head. "I wouldn't believe you."

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. "And if I said I wanted to get to know you?"

Keith huffs an exhale. "I wouldn't believe you."

He loses his battle with his smile, shrugging lightly. "It doesn't matter if you believe me or not. That's why I'm here."

Keith blinks. "To get to know me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You're interesting." It's said so casually, so matter-of-factly, with a light honesty that Keith isn't used to hearing from fey. It has a strange prickle of warmth singing down his spine.

"I'm... really not."

"You are." Lance pulls a hand out of his pocket, holding a folded piece of paper between two fingers. He holds it out to Keith, a small smile on his lips that crinkles at the corners of his eyes. "And despite how dangerous you are, I'd like to get to know you."

He's heard that before. That the fey consider half breeds to be dangerous. He's never quite understood it. Not when they're clearly far more powerful, vicious, and vindictive. Still, he doesn't question it. Instead, he stares at the paper between Lance's fingers. "What’s that?"

"For you," he says, extending his hand further.

Keith shakes his head. "I'm not taking anything from you." He knows this game. Shiro's drilled the dangers of it into him since he was young. Never accept anything from a fey. Accepting a gift can be seen as accepting an open ended deal, and that's definitely something he doesn't want.

Lance huffs out a sigh, rolling his eyes as his entire body slouches with what is a clear display of exasperation. Not entirely the graceful composure Keith has come to expect from his kind. "It's not a gift, but fine. Have it your way." He sets the piece of paper on the bench between them, holding it in place with his finger for a moment while he meets Keith's gaze with determined eyes and a purse of his lips. "I'll just abandon this here, and it can be picked up without consequence."

"What is it?"

"A way to contact me..." His expression softens, voice lowering to a mere breath. "If you'd like to." And then all at once, his features scrunch up, nose wrinkling and lip curling. "I haven't quite figured it all out yet, but Hunk tells me that I'll get the hang of it."

Keith blinks, brows furrowing. "You know Hunk?"

A new light enters Lance's eyes, a smile once more making its home on his lips. He leans toward Keith, voice low as he tilts his chin, gazing up at Keith through his lashes. "I suppose you will have to text me if you want more answers." With a wink, he leans back, lifting his finger from the piece of paper. He pushes himself to his feet, hands once more buried in the pockets of his jacket. "I'll see you around, Keith."

He walks away, and Keith watches him go. His name on the man's lips had sounded soft and familiar, sending waves of _something_ surging through his chest. He never told Lance his name, but he's willing to bet Shiro had.

Still, there's a bigger question on Keith's mind.

"Text... you...?" He looks down, only wrestling with his curiosity for a brief moment before picking up the piece of paper. Inside he finds a phone number, and he stares at it for a long moment as the pieces start to settle in, but there are far too many gaps to form a complete picture.

Lance... a faerie... has a _phone?_

He doesn't know what to make of it. Of any of it. Of Lance himself or their conversation. He glances back down the path, but Lance is nowhere in sight. He's left with a strange mix of dread and anticipation coiling in his chest.

There's something about Lance that Keith can't quite put a finger on. Something that nibbles at his curiosity and runs circles in his mind, restless and agitated. Like grasping for a word on the tip of his tongue, just out of his reach.

He doesn't know a thing about Lance, but... he could find out.

He’s not at all surprised to realize he wants to find out.

As he glances down at the piece of paper in his hand, his eyes catch on something else. There, nestled against the foot of the bench, growing from the worn park dirt, is a small cluster of forget-me-nots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
> 
> I'm most active on twitter. To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
> 
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)


	2. Never Pay Attention to Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith shouldn't indulge Lance. He shouldn't pay him any mind. He shouldn't encourage this... friendship? 
> 
> He should keep his head down. He should ignore the fey. He definitely shouldn't let Lance into his life. 
> 
> But Keith isn't good at doing things he should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad you guys are enjoying the vibe so far! Lets get more of that pining and strange mystery.
> 
> _Trigger Warning: Mentions of blood and needles. Keith works as a tattoo artist, and he uses blood magic. Which leads to casual mentions of both needles and blood._
> 
> Stay safe and happy reading <33

Keith's pace slows as they approach the building, eyes narrowing warily on the innocent wooden sign with the golden curling script that reads _Shay's Cafe_. "Shiro said we aren't supposed to come here alone," he says, apprehension prickling beneath his skin. "Or at all."

"I know," Pidge says, stepping wide as someone passes before stepping in close again, bumping her shoulder against Keith's. When he glares down at her, she merely grins up at him, corners of his lips curling mischievously. "But thankfully, I'm a no good human who can easily break my promises."

Keith rolls his eyes, gaze once more drawn to the store front. It blends into the rest of them. Just another shop on the strip. Clearly a cafe. Brick lines the large, inviting windows. A sign hangs above the door. Even the door itself looks rustic and intricate and inviting.

He's not sure how much of it is fey magic at work and how much is just the simple fact that it looks like a cozy coffeeshop.

His lips purse, pressing into a small frown. "Shiro is as domesticated as a fey can get," he says lowly, voice kept just above a whisper. "When he gets paranoid, I think it's best to listen."

Pidge shrugs, arm bumping against his once more. Her shit eating grin has yet to fade. "Yet here you are, being a rebel with me."

"I can't let you go alone." Keith reaches for the door handle, which is noticeably made of a curve of worn wood rather than any type of metal. He pulls it open, standing aside for Pidge to enter while his gaze takes another lazy sweep of the street.

There aren't any fey lingering, and the ones he can see don't seem to be paying any attention to them.

"What a gentleman," Pidge teases, putting a hand to her chest.

Keith rolls his eyes, lightly kicking her calf. "Just go."

A silver bell above the door chimes as they step over the threshold, despite the fact that the door opens outward and hasn't touched it. Keith pauses just inside, taking a moment to glance around. He lets his gaze travel almost lazily over the interior, keeping his face firmly indifferent. As if he's just a human who wandered in, inspecting the decor.

The interior of the cafe is decorated almost like a cave. The walls are covered with texture to mimic rock walls, and all the light fixtures are designed to look like glowing crystals. Despite that, the place doesn't feel confined or dark. It's warm, with soft lighting, and feels incredibly welcoming.

Along with Shay's smile as she spots them. "Hello, you two!"

"Hey, Shay," Pidge says, already leaving Keith's side to walk up to the counter.

He's slower, taking note of how many fey are in the cafe. There are only a few. One in the corner, tall and hunched, hood covering much of his face despite the shimmer of his glamour. Another sits at another table, a large book open in front of them as they hunch over it. As they turn their head, Keith can see the faint shine of what are probably antlers hidden from mortal sight. Somewhere in the back, where a few steps lead up into another sitting area, Keith catches a glimpse of a table of three girls, loud and laughing, their skin giving hints of bright colors beneath the shimmer of their human illusions.

There are a couple humans, too. Sitting around with their coffee and computers. As if this were any ordinary cafe to idle in.

A few people, human and fey, glance up as they come in, but quickly look away as they lose interest. Only then does Keith breathe out a small sigh and follow after Pidge.

"I haven't seen you two in a while," Shay is saying as he approaches the counter. She's already typing their order into the iPad she uses as a register.

"Yeah, well, _dad_ said we were grounded." Pidge leans heavily on the counter, pulling her wallet out to hand her card to Shay.

Shay nods, smile becoming tight as she says, "Yes, well, I'm sure he has good reason."

"Would be nice if he told us his reasoning. At least then we can judge it for ourselves. We're not kids anymore." Shay hums, nodding as she hands Pidge's card back. "Anyway, it's one of our days off, and I wanted coffee. Keith just got dragged here."

Shay's eyes found his over Pidge's shoulder, lips curling into something of mild amusement. "He's much better at heading warnings than you are."

"I'm still in my rebellious phase."

Keith rolls his eyes, stepping away from her to walk to the other end of the counter, where customers pick up their orders.

Pidge has always been this way. More or less taking warnings lightly and summing it up to his and Shiro's paranoia. He supposes she has less to worry about. She has a sixth sense to let her know when someone is a fey. Knows when she should avoid them, when she should be polite, when she shouldn't take anything from them, and so on. But she's not an ironblood. She can't see them like Keith can, and her kind isn't in danger of being hunted.

She never grew up with Shiro drilling lessons into her, repeating warnings and infusing an innate sense of caution.

He used to find her flippant attitude toward fey annoying and careless, but he's come to appreciate it. She balances him out well, and she keeps him from becoming a hermit. Besides, there's something strangely endearing about her lack of caution. Something freeing. It's refreshing to be around.

Pidge hovers near the machines, chatting amiably with Shay. They catch up, Pidge telling her of some things that've happened in the shop, and Shay telling her stories about Hunk. Keith leans his hip against the counter at the pick-up end, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes idly staring at Shay's specially made no-steel machines. His thoughts wander, letting their conversation wash over him.

The high pitched laughter from the three fey girls in the back.

The tapping of a keyboard from one of the human patrons.

The flipping of a page from the fey reading a book.

A door being pushed open somewhere near the back. Footsteps. The drop in temperature with the sudden chill in the air that brings goosebumps to his skin. The drifting of warm air over his neck and ear—

"You never texted me."

Keith flinches, pulling back to bump against the counter, head whipping around and hand slapping over his neck. He stares, wide eyed and mouth gaping, at Lance.

The fey's smile is infuriating. Small, but clearly visible where it curls at the corners of his lips. It dances in his eyes, the blue depths of which swirl with delight beneath the sparkle of his glamour. He leans back, hands in his pockets, giving Keith a little space without stepping away.

Keith's eyes narrow, lips pressed into a scowl as he rubs the spot on his neck, still feeling the strange tingle from where Lance's breath had touched him. "I never said I would."

Lance's smile falls, shoulders slumping as his lips press into a full blown pout. Other than Shiro and Hunk, Keith has never seen a fey pout before. Never one so naturally beautiful and sharply elegant as Lance. It looks... strange. Humanizes him just a bit. "I thought you'd want to."

Keith lifts a brow. "Why would I want to?"

Lance shrugs, rolling his shoulders as he straightens once more. "To get to know me?"

"Why would I want to get to know you?"

Lance's smile is back as he tilts his head to the side. "Because I'm so charming?"

Keith scoffs, lightly huffing a breath as he turns away. "Are you following me?"

There's a pause, just brief enough for Keith to glance at him sidelong. He manages to catch Lance's frown just as it leaves his lips, smoothing out into a look more casual. "Not today."

"Hey, Keith— wait a minute." Pidge slides up next to him, two drinks in her hands. She stands close, just a fraction between the two of them, looking Lance up and down as if sizing him up. Her brows furrow, lips pursed. "You're the guy from the shop. You came in to see Shiro."

Lance steps back, nearly fidgeting under Pidge's gaze. Keith can hardly blame him. PIdge's stare can be intense. It just surprises him that a high fey might wilt under it. Lance clears his throat, lifting his chin a little. "I am."

Pidge's eyes narrow, lifting her chin to mirror him. "Are you friends with Shiro?"

"I am."

"Does Shiro trust you."

"Yes."

She hums, eyes looking him up and down once more before turning to Keith. "Shay said Hunk has something he wants to show me in the back." She meets his eyes steadily, communicating her worry silently. She lowers her voice. "Will you be alright by yourself for a bit?"

Keith lifts his gaze from her, glancing over her head to Lance. The fey smiles, small and... genuine. Looking almost shy as he shuffles his feet and meets Keith's gaze through his lashes. It's strange. He's used to seeing predatory smiles from fey. Used to seeing the malicious intent in their eyes. He's used to them setting him on edge, but Lance... he gets none of that from him.

He nods, glancing back to Pidge as he takes his drink from her. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Okay," she says slowly, sending a quick glare over her shoulder at Lance. "Just... call for me if you need me."

"I will."

Pidge takes a few slow steps away, meeting Lance's eyes with a silent warning. She turns before she reaches the door that has an employees only sign, pulling it open and disappearing into the depths of the back of the cafe.

"Sit with me?" Lance asks, snapping Keith's attention back to him.

He hesitates, is tempted to say no, instead he shrugs. "Sure."

Lance's grin is immediately, eyes lighting up as he straightens. "Really?" He breathes. Keith just shrugs and looks away. Lance's breathless enthusiasm is far too bright and far too genuine for him to handle. It makes something in his gut twist, heart squeezing tightly at his pulse flutters. "Okay, you go take a seat. I'm going to go get something."

Before he can ask, Lance is darting away, slipping past the wooden door into the back room. Keith finds a table far away from the other patrons, settling in with his back to the wall. Lance appears a moment later, a drink in one hand and a plate of baked goods in another.

He takes the seat across from Keith, setting his own cup down and sliding the plate across the table toward Keith. "Hunk's lemon squares are _amazing_. Try one."

Keith eyes the plate, pulling back a fraction before he looks up to Lance.

The fey's smile immediately falls, replaced once more by that exaggerated pout. He huffs, eyes narrowing. "Fine." He leans back in his seat, arms crossing over his chest as he glares at Keith. "I'm abandoning those. They're not mine. I have no claim. They're not a gift."

Keith tries to hold his expression steady, but he can feel a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. He reaches forward, taking a square gingerly between two fingers. Flavor bursts to life on his tongue. Sharp citrus, sweetness of sugar and honey, a strange light earthiness that grounds the whole sensation and keeps it from being too much. He closes his eyes briefly, humming in contentment.

"Good, right?"

"All of Hunk's creations are amazing," he says, finishing off the lemon square and licking his fingers clean.

"True. He's always had a gift with food."

"How do you know him? Him and Shay?"

Lance shrugs, leaning forward once more and resting his arms on the table. He cradles his mug between his hands. "He's one of my best friends. We go way, way, _way_ back. I met Shay through him."

"Is that how you know Shiro?"

Lance's eyes narrow, lips twisting. "Sort of?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I more or less introduced them to Shiro, but they already knew of him. Few people didn't."

Keith nods, eyes on the table between them. He mirrors Lance, cradling his cup between his hands, leaning forward enough to keep their conversation private. He glances up through his lashes, catches the flicker of confusion in Lance's eyes. "You knew him when he was still with the court."

It's not a question, but Lance answers anyway, lowering his voice to match Keith's. "Of course. Everyone knew of him."

"You didn't just know _of_ him," Keith presses. "You knew him personally."

"Is there any point in denying it?" Lance asks, lips curling with wry amusement.

"No."

"Then yes, I knew him."

"You're of the summer court," Keith says. It's not a question. Something flickers in Lance's eyes, and while his smile remains, it becomes strained. A frozen memory of something that was once genuine. "Shiro doesn't tell me much about his life at court, but he's implied the only people he knew were those with power. Those, and the wild fey he met before he got there." Keith lets his eyes wander, gaze drifting to the places where Lance's thin glamour shines the most. His cheeks. His ears. His hair. "Judging from how thin your glamour is, you're one of the powerful ones. A high fey in the summer court."

Lance's smile twitches wider, but there's no amusement there. Just careful indifference as he hums vaguely. He meets Keith's gaze steadily, but doesn't respond. Instead, he lifts his cup to his lips, sipping slowly.

Keith knows he's right, but he also knows Lance isn't going to say anything on the matter. He's gotten the coy silent treatment from Shiro often enough. Fine. Time to take a different approach.

"You said you weren't following me today."

"I wasn't." He latches onto the new topic, lips curling into a more genuine smile. "I was visiting Hunk and Shay. His restaurant doesn't open until later, so he often spends his mornings here. Seeing you here was just a pleasant coincidence. I didn't think you'd come after Shiro told you to avoid places like this—"

"You're implying that you've followed me other days."

With how closely he's watching Lance's face, he gets the immense satisfaction of watching surprise flicker across the swirling pools of his eyes. His mouth goes lax around his words, voice dying on his tongue as he stares, brows raised. He recovers quickly, but not quickly enough. His eyes narrow, lips pursed into a thin line.

Keith smirks, satisfaction curling with amusement in his chest. "I grew up with Shiro," he says, cutting off Lance's retort before it can form. "I know how to read between the lines when you twist answers to be truthful."

Lance huffs, shoulder slumping as his glare falls to the mug between his hands. That pout is back. Exaggerated and frustrated. It's... strangely endearing. "You're far too clever for your own good."

Keith huffs a short exhale. "Shiro says that, too. So why have you been following me?" Lance glances up through his lashes, brows furrowed and pout still in place. Keith cocks an eyebrow. "You're not exactly subtle about it. I've seen you a couple times. Other times I've felt the cold air you bring with you. And you tend to leave flowers behind."

Lance's pout wavers as his own smile threatens to break through. "Flowers you've grown fond of."

Keith frowns, ignoring the heat that prickles at the back of his neck. "Why have you been following me?”

Lance sits up a little straighter, one shoulder rising and falling. "I want to keep an eye on you. Make sure you're safe."

"Why?"

Lance tilts his head to the side, eyes distant and smile wistful. "I ask myself that a lot," he breathes, a sigh trailing on the end of his words. His eyes lower to the table, brows pinching as his smile fades. "I haven't... really come up with a good answer. I shouldn't be following you. I shouldn't care. I should be avoiding you completely."

Keith swallows hard. "Why?"

Lance glances up through his lashes, smile wry. "You're dangerous."

Keith scoffs. "I've heard that before. That's what they all think of my kind."

"True, but it's more than that. You're dangerous to _me_. Or, at least, you have the potential to be. I was warned not to mingle with your kind, yet... I can't stay away from you." His head tilts to the other side, eyes narrowed as he looks Keith over. Lips pursed as if trying to figure out a puzzle. His voice drops into a thoughtful whisper. "Maybe that's the reason. You're too hard to resist."

There's something buzzing beneath his skin. His chest squeezes against the rapid pulse of his heart. Heat in his veins, prickling at his fingertips as he feels Lance's gaze rake over him. When he speaks, it comes out as a whisper, if only to keep his voice from cracking. "If I'm dangerous to you, why don't you hate me? Why don't you try to kill me?"

Lance frowns at that, brows furrowing. "I don't think I'm capable of hating you." He shakes his head, waving a hand as if to dissipate the notion. "And I could never kill you."

Keith tries to ignore his body's reaction to that statement. Open and honest. The warmth that curls and coils in his gut, bubbling through his veins. A delighted thrill that's startling and frightening as it shivers down his spine. "Why am I dangerous to you specifically?"

Lance's eyes return to his, crinkling at the corners as a smile tugs at his lips. He lifts his cup to hide it, voice deceptively casual but unable to hide his satisfaction as he says, "I suppose you'll have to get to know me to find out." He winks, and Keith hates the way his pulse stutters. "Good thing you can text me."

* * *

**Keith**  
> I'm not going to talk to you if you keep sending me emojis

 **Lance**  
> Nice try but you only reply to me when I send you emojis  
> Besides what do you have against emojis  
> They're adorable and innocent and a brilliant invention

 **Keith**  
> You keep sending me entire BLOCKS of random emojis, Lance. That's too much

 **Lance**  
> They're not random Keith  
> They tell a story  
> Please tell me your visual comprehension skills aren't that bad

 **Keith**  
> If you do that again, I'm blocking your number

 **Lance**  
> [ image.png ]  
> Look at that  
> I can send you a direct picture of my face in real time  
> So you can see how much I disapprove of what you just said  
> Human inventions are incredible  
> Watch this

[ Lance is calling via FaceTime ]

[ Call declined... ]

[ Lance is calling via FaceTime ]

[ Call declined... ]

[ Lance is calling via FaceTime ]

[ Call declined... ]

 **Lance**  
> Keith answer me!

 **Keith**  
> No, I'm working. I'm not going to FaceTime you

 **Lance**  
> But it's so much easier than texting  
> All the buttons are too small and I don't understand the system  
> They're not in alphabetical order  
> It makes no sense  
> It takes forever to type a simple message and half the time I accidentally touch the wrong button

 **Keith**  
> You're doing fine texting right now? Better than I imagined to be honest. It took Shiro a long time to learn how to text

 **Lance**  
> Hunk showed me the speech-to-text option and I've been using that  
> It's far easier and more efficient

 **Keith**  
> Ah, so you're cheating

 **Lance**  
> It's not cheating!

 **Keith**  
> You're cheating around texting because it's too hard for you. Aren't you supposed to be a powerful high fey of the summer court? Is texting too hard for you?

 **Lance**  
> Mean  
> Has anyone ever told you that you're mean?

 **Keith**  
> You. Yesterday

 **Lance**  
> I stand by it

 **Keith**  
> If you really think I'm mean, you could stop texting me and stalking me

 **Lance**  
> I'm not stalking you

 **Keith**  
> I know fey can't lie, even over text. The whole intent thing still applies. We've tested it with Shiro.  
> So who did you get to type that message?

 **Lance**  
> It's not a lie! I'm not stalking you!  
> Here lemme prove it  
> [ Received audio text ]  
> There  
> That's me saying I'm not stalking you

 **Keith**  
> Sure as hell seems like stalking

 **Lance**  
> I'm just looking out for you

 **Keith**  
> Why?

 **Lance**  
> Because I care

 **Keith**  
> You still haven't told me why you care

When he gets a paragraph of a random string of emojis, Keith sighs, clicking off his phone and setting it face down on the desk. He hunches over his iPad instead, working on a tattoo design, lips curled into a small smile as his phone continues to buzz.

* * *

**Lance**  
> Have you ever considered the fact that human technology is its own kind of magic?

 **Keith**  
> Lance, what the fuck?

 **Lance**  
> Seriously listen  
> We use our magic to hide ourselves and to lure in our prey and to entertain ourselves and to create illusions  
> The internet and human technology does the same thing  
> The internet is human magic

 **Keith**  
> It's 3 in the morning  
> Don't fey sleep?

 **Lance**  
> Yes but I got trapped in a hole of youtube and I can't get out  
> It's a good thing I never visited Hunk for long periods of time before otherwise I don't think I would've been able to leave  
> The human realm is fascinating  
> I knew that before  
> But I stayed away for obvious reasons

 **Keith**  
> For what obvious reasons?

 **Lance**  
> Ironbloods have a tendency to live in the mortal realm  
> I was forced to stay away for my own safety

 **Keith**  
> What changed?

 **Lance**  
> I sincerely hope you never have to find out  
> Anyway have you ever seen these things called vines?  
> Why are they called vines anyway? They have nothing to do with plants

 **Keith**  
> Giving you a phone was a terrible decision on Hunk's part

 **Lance**  
> I can only partially agree  
> On one hand I'm trapped in a plethora of cat videos and these things called memes  
> On the other hand I can talk to you any time I want  
> For that I'm grateful

 **Keith**  
> It's not any time you want

 **Lance**  
> You tend to reply to me pretty quickly  
> That leads me to believe it's any time I want  
> Keith? Buddy? You there?  
> Hellooooo  
> Keith Keith Keith Keith Keith

 **Keith**  
> Oh my god, let me sleep

 **Lance**  
> Perhaps if you'd be willing to spend time with me in person I would be less inclined to bother you in the middle of the night

 **Keith**  
> I can't tell if that's bribery or blackmail

 **Lance**  
> It's an attempt to convince you to spend time with me

 **Keith**  
> If I say yes, will you let me sleep?

 **Lance**  
> Yes

 **Keith**  
> Then yes

 **Lance**  
> Really???

 **Keith**  
> I have a feeling that even if I say no, you'll approach me anyway

 **Lance**  
> I am known to be persistent

 **Keith**  
> Aren't all fey?

 **Lance**  
> ..... I suppose  
> But when it comes to you I can't stay away  
> I tried but I'm not strong enough

 **Keith**  
> Am I supposed to be flattered?

 **Lance**  
> Not quite  
> If I tell you that your eyes remind me of the midnight sky, swirling with stars and mystery  
> And your skin is like silver in the moonlight and blazing with fire in the setting sun  
> And the spark of stubborn pride and determination that crackles in your gaze feels like lightning striking me to my very core, threatening to consume me whole while simultaneously reminding me what it's like to be alive  
> If I told you those things, you should be flattered  
> Keith?  
> Was that too much?  
> Did you fall asleep?  
> Keith why are there so many cat videos? Do humans not realize all cats are descendants of fey and it's their natural charm aura that holds them in their sway?  
> Keith  
> Keith Keith Keith  
> I found a bunch of extremely sad cat pictures and I'll start sending them to you

 **Keith**  
> Stop texting me and let me sleep

 **Lance**  
> But I'm lonely

 **Keith**  
> I'll see you tomorrow

 **Lance**  
> Really?

 **Keith**  
> Only if you let me sleep

 **Lance**  
> Deal

 **Keith**  
> ..... oh my god, you tricked me into making a deal with a fey

 **Lance**  
> >:3c

* * *

The field is one of his favorite spots. Just far enough within the forest to be cut off from human civilization and far enough from any faerie rings or the paths from them toward human prey that fey rarely pass by.

It's a decent sized field, rising up onto a hill from the forest around them, rolling off into more hills. The grass is tall and bending at the tips, creating a plush, thick layer that's surprisingly soft. Wild flowers dot the landscape. Just a few that dare to push past the occasional spring frost. In a few months, these hills will be covered with color as more flowers bloom.

The sky is crystal clear, sun bright and warm against his skin. A few puffy clouds float lazily across the azure backdrop. A gentle breeze rolls over the field, making the grass dance and playing with the loose hair at his neck.

Keith sits atop a hill, knees pulled up and one arm draped over the top of them. His other hand idly runs through Kosmo's fur where the wolf lies curled around his back and side.

Keith had given Lance vague instructions, curious how long it would take. Not long, apparently.

The next breeze that rolls past him has a chill, making shivers run down his spine. There's a shift in the grass long after the wind settles. A consistent swish of footsteps. Kosmo lifts his head, turned to glance behind him, nostrils flaring as he turns his nose to the wind.

Keith already knows who it is. Trusting the feeling in his gut. But when Kosmo lays his head back down, eyes closing, Keith is certain.

"You found me," he says, tilting his head to glance up as Lance comes to stand next to him.

His skin is warm in the afternoon sunlight. The breeze plays lovingly with his hair, catching the light as it moves and nearly glinting white through his glamour. When he smiles, bright and lopsided, Keith's stomach flips.

"Of course I did." He lowers himself to the ground next to Keith, stretching his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. He plants his hands behind him, leaning back. "I always do."

Another breeze rolls past them. Warmer. It tugs at Keith's jacket and plays with Lance's shirt. He's not wearing that oversized jacket today, but he still dresses far more simply than Keith would expect from a high fey. If he wasn't able to see Lance's glamour, he'd blend right into human crowds. Dressed casual but clearly aware of his body type.

If it weren't for that subtle sheen of his glamour, he'd be exactly Keith's type.

And that's... that's a thought. An uncomfortable one that has his heart picking up all the same.

"There aren't any fey around here," Lance says, pausing before his lip curls at the corners. "Besides me." He tilts his head to glance at Keith, and it's only then that he realizes that he's staring.

He turns away quickly, ignoring the heat threatening to crawl up his neck and the chuckle escaping Lance's lips in soft puffs of air. "I know."

"You chose this spot so we could be alone." It's not a question, but there's still an inquiry in his voice. A curiosity.

"I like this spot," he says, scratching behind Kosmo's ears. "Kosmo and I come here a lot. Sometimes Pidge and Shiro come along. Sometimes Matt. It's nice to have a place to relax where we don't have to worry about being watched."

And that's precisely the reason why he's not sure why he decided to meet Lance here. He had agreed to see him, but they could have hung out anywhere. It didn't have to be his special spot. But once the idea came to him, floating delicately on a mental breeze, he had seized it and hadn't been able to let it go.

So here he is, sitting in the most private spot he can find, far from the noise and pollution of the city, with his dog and a fey boy he really shouldn't be trusting.

Yet he finds himself trusting Lance anyway. It hasn't been a conscious decision. Small things that he doesn't realize the importance of until later. Staring at him. Talking to him. Approaching him. Saving the forget-me-nots. Teasing him. Being what could be considered rude. Allowing Lance to text him and contact him. Not feeling stressed or strained about the fact that Lance seems to know what he is.

He doesn't think it has everything to do with Shiro's influence. Shiro had assured him that Hunk and Shay could be trusted as well, but it took some time to warm up to them. He still doesn't fully trust them, if he's being honest.

Yet Lance... he led Lance to his spot.

He's letting Lance weasel his way into his life.

It doesn't seem to be a conscious decision, and stopping it feels as futile as trying to stop the tides. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he's always been one to follow his instincts. And his instincts don't warn him against Lance. On the contrary, it feels like they're pulling him toward the fey.

"Why did you name him Kosmo?" Lance asks, pulling him from his thoughts. There's a smile on Lance's lips, small and curled and coy. And it's upon noticing it that Keith realizes he's been staring again.

And Lance has noticed.

He tears his eyes away, settling them instead on his companion. The rising embarrassment washes away as a softness relaxes his features, pulling a smile from him as he rubs his thumb between Kosmo's closed eyes. "Because his fur reminds me of the cosmos."

Lance glances over then, head tilting to the side as his brows pull together at the center. "He's... gray? And white?"

He's not sure why he makes the decision. He's not entirely sure that there was a decision to begin with. It's not something he usually lets other people see. And never fey. His abilities are closely guarded secrets. Things that set him apart from the human he so desperately presents himself as.

Yet he feels a smile tugging wider across his lips. Feels his hand dragging over Kosmo's head and down his neck. Feels the prickling of his magic bubbling in his veins. The tightly wound knot in his chest unfurls, buzzing with energy just beneath his skin.

He reaches beyond himself, pulling at the magic already embedded into Kosmo's skin. As his hand passes over Kosmo's fur, it leaves a wake of color change. The common grays and white of a Husky shift to blues. Dark as the midnight sky with highlights of brighter shades. Kosmo doesn't open his eyes, but he shifts his shoulders, shaking off the prickling feeling of Keith temporarily peeling back the thick glamour he wears.

When he lifts his hand, the fur fades back to normal, shimmering back to gray and white like it had never been different in the first place.

"Whoa." He hears Lance breathe. He scratches behind Kosmo's ears as he looks up, grin stretched wide, chest bubbling with a strange sort of pride that he's not used to feeling. Lance's eyes are wide, fixed on the wolf curled around Keith. "He's... he's a blink wolf."

"Yup." Keith can't hold back the fond pride that leaks into his voice. "I found him here five years ago. He was young and injured. Must've come through one of the fey rings. He was being hunted, and Shiro and I chased off the predators." Kosmo's eyes blink open, gazing up at him and shining with golden intelligence. Keith runs his thumb between them, smiling as they droop. "Shiro said we couldn't keep him because he'd draw attention to us. But he didn't want to leave me, and I didn't want to let him go."

"I can't even feel him." Lance is leaning forward now, legs crossed under him as he leans around Keith to get a better look at the wolf. His brows are furrowed, lips pursed in his confusion. His delicate upturned nose crinkles, and Keith tries his best not to think of it as cute. It is, though. And incredibly endearing. "I should be able to feel his magic. And see his glamour. He's a fey creature." His eyes find Keith's, head tilted. "How?"

Keith lets his shoulder rise and fall, heart hammering in his chest as he says, "My magic." The words feel strange on his tongue. He's not used to talking about it aloud. Or at all. It's oddly thrilling. "I have... blood magic. I was able to infuse it into Kosmo's skin. Glamour is infused into this hair follicles, too small for most fey to notice. I also changed the aura his blood gives off so it doesn't immediately read as fey. Most fey just think he's strange, but no one questions it. It was the only way Shiro would let me keep him."

"That's incredible," Lance breathes, glancing back to Kosmo. He reaches out a tentative hand, and Kosmo's eyes snap to it. Lance hesitates, but then pushes forward. He breathes out a small breath when his hand makes contact, a giggle slipping out when Kosmo pushes into his hand to encourage the petting. "I never imagined you could apply your magic like this."

Something prickles at the back of Keith's neck. It echoes through his body, making him stiffen, making his hair stand on end as it vibrates beneath his skin. His heart convulses, skipping a beat and squeezing before pulsing into overtime. There's a tug at it. A tug he can't identify. Pulling him in several directions all at once.

There's an echo of something in the hollow pit in his chest. Something that's always been there but never been able to be filled. A strange emptiness that Keith has always known. It pulses. Shivers.

And something itches in the back of his mind. A thought he can't quite grasp. Dissipates like smoke as he reaches for it, slipping through his fingers as he wanders into a dense fog.

It feels... tense.

It feels... strange.

It feels...

It feels...

Familiar?

“Have we met before?” The words slip from his lips on a breath that's pushed from him as his chest squeezes. He doesn't know why he says them. Doesn't know why that's the question that pulls from him. But he watches as Lance stiffens, and knows that he isn't going crazy. "Before, I mean. Before that day at the subway station, did we know each other?"

Lance turns to look at him, movements slow and dragging. As if time itself has turned to liquid. He meets Keith's eyes, his own carefully blank. Calculating as they search Keith's face.

Then he smiles. Slow and small. But it's tight lipped and doesn't reach his eyes. Blue fractured eyes that swim with far too many things for Keith to name but seem to ache in his chest all the same.

"You're not going to answer me, are you?"

Lance shakes his head, already pushing himself to his feet, brushing loose grass from his pants. He looks around for a moment, taking a few steps away before bending at the waist and picking up a stick. He waves it in the air, smile looking a hair more genuine as he says, "Hey Kosmo, wanna play fetch? Fetch, boy? Wanna play?"

Kosmo lifts his head immediately, body tense and at attention, ears perked forward. His eyes are narrowed on the stick in Lance's hand. Then he looks to Keith, cocking his head to the side in clear question.

Keith feels himself smile, unable to help it as he pats his wolf's head. "Go ahead. You can blink."

Lance throws the stick, and Kosmo disappears from his side in a brief flash of light and a crackle of energy, leaving before a small cloud of smoke and glimmering dust that dissipates into the wind.

He appears several dozen yards away, snatching the stick out of the air before disappearing again. He reappears on the ground, sprinting back towards them.

"Hey, Keith?"

He tears his gaze from Kosmo, but Lance isn't watching him. There's a small purse to his lips, but his brow is no longer furrowed. "Yeah?"

"Ask me again another time, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

The crisp air of the spring morning is cold in his lungs, but the magic that thrives in his veins helps to dull the ache. It also helps to keep his muscles warm and loose as his run comes to an abrupt stop at a light.

Still, he keeps moving, jogging a little in place on the street corner as cars whip through the intersection. His heart beats heavy in his chest, nearly drowned out by the music blaring into one ear. The other earbud is tucked away, allowing him to hear the din of city noise.

A strange sensation shivers through him, as familiar as it is alarming, yet oddly conflicting.

He's used to the feeling of being watched. Even more so, he's attuned to the feeling of fey eyes on him. His blood reacts to it. Simmering beneath his skin, cold and insistent, making his hair stand on end in an early warning system of gut reactions that he's learned better than to ignore.

But paired with it is another sensation that's becoming increasingly more familiar: the strange warm bubbling that settles low in his gut and hums through his chest when it's Lance's eyes on him.

His eyes are already wandering, gaze sweeping out around him in a lazy arc. A completely natural thing for a pedestrian stuck on a street corner to do. He knows he's looking for Lance, any sign or hint of him. It shouldn't be too hard. Lance has stopped making himself subtle whenever he watches Keith.

Instead his gaze snags on a different fey.

A tall man with a thick glamour that catches the sunlight like a beacon. Beneath the shimmer, Keith can nearly catch purple hues on his skin. Thick, tangled dark hair. A heavy glamour that obscures the furry ears perched atop his head and the tail swinging behind him. He wears a coat, hands tucked into it, but it's not nearly enough to hide how unnaturally gangly his limbs are.

Keith might've overlooked him completely, had he not been staring right at Keith.

Their eyes meet briefly, but Keith's gaze passes over him out of habit. He can't, however, stop the impulse to do a double take as his eyes snap back. His chest squeezes tight, apprehension and a spark of startled panic sending a cold rush of adrenaline through his veins.

He keeps his eyes moving, trying to pull it off as looking back to the light about to change.

But he can still see the fey in his peripheral vision. Standing across another street. People moving around him. Clearly obscured by the illusion of his glamour. He hasn't turned away from Keith, and the weight of his eyes is making his skin crawl.

The signal to walk lights up just as his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He pulls it out, already starting up at a jog and avoiding looking at the fey watching him. He's surprised to find it's a call from Lance.

"Hello?"

"You're being watched."

Ice crawls down his spine, and he nearly trips over his own feet. His eyes widen, snapping from side to side, but he still can't find Lance. "What?"

"You're being watched."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm watching you, too. And him."

"Fey," Keith breathes, barely daring to voice the word, even as a whisper that's lost to the wind.

He's not sure the phone would've picked it up, but Lance seems to hear all the same. "Yeah. He's keeping his distance, but he's following you."

Keith's heart tears against his ribs as it pounds. His breath comes ragged, ringing in his ears. He's dealt with fey before, but never like this. He's never had to actually confront one. He's always followed Shiro's rules, avoided them, and he's never managed to catch a fey's attention until Lance.

And Lance's attention isn't exactly unwanted.

This fey though...

It sends chills down his spine, chest squeezing uncomfortably tight. “What’d I do?"

"Run towards the park. He's winter court, and that area is currently summer court territory. He won't follow you there." There's something strange about Lance's voice. He's so used to the playfulness and the lightness, the mischievous and taunting lilt. He's used to wistful words and pensive thoughtfulness. He's never heard Lance this cold before. His voice is hard and steely, sharp with command and quick with decision.

Keith finds himself nodding, giving into Lance's confidence. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay, I can do that. Where are you?"

"Don't worry about it. I can't approach you with him watching, but I'm here. I'm keeping an eye on you both." His voice softens, lowering into a rumble of a whisper that Keith feels vibrate down to his core. "You're safe, Keith. Just... hurry."

He hangs up, and Keith keeps his phone clutched in his hand as he picked up the pace. Despite the energy buzzing through him and the panic urging him to go faster, he holds himself back into a quick jog. He can feel the weight of the fey's eyes on him, claws of ice that prickle at his skin. But the shudder of fear is softened by Lance's words. By his voice.

He knows he has a tendency to trust Lance without thought, allowing the fey to slip right past all of his carefully crafted defenses, but he hadn't realized just how much he does trust him until this moment.

Until the moment where he might be in real danger from another fey, and he wholeheartedly feels safer knowing Lance is watching them both.

He diverges from his usual run route, steering toward the first entrance to the park that he comes across.

The first wave of relief washes over him the moment he steps off the sidewalk and onto the path.

The second wave of relief comes as soon as he's far enough into the park that the city streets are no longer visible and he realizes he no longer feels like he's being watched.

The third bout of relief hits him like a tidal wave as Lance steps out of the trees and onto the running path, drawing Keith up short and immediately wrapping him up in his arms.

Keith freezes, heart hammering hard enough that he's certain Lance must feel it. He blames it on the feeling of being hunted instead of the strong, secure press of Lance's arms around him, holding him to a solid and firm chest. He tries not to think about the way Lance's hair tickles his cheek or the way the other man lets out a breath that sounds just as relieved as Keith feels.

It makes him dizzy. Makes his head spin. Lance has never touched him like this, and the only time they've been close is the first day they met when Lance caught him on the stairs. Warmth seeps into them whenever they touch, a startling difference from the chill that hangs in the air in the fey's presence. It's inviting and far too tempting. And right now, Keith is far too startled and shaken from everything to resist.

Before he can think on it too hard, his arms are wrapping around Lance's waist, head bowing to rest on the fey's shoulder.

He doesn't know what he's doing. He should stop. But he knows he won't.

Instead he breathes Lance in, marveling at how the simple gesture is already calming his heart rate and easing the fight-or-flight response from his system. There's still a buzz in his veins, but it's a fuzzy pleasant burn whenever he and Lance touch.

And he's almost certain that has nothing to do with the fey stalking him.

"What the fuck was that?" Keith asks, voice muffled by Lance's shoulder.

"You were being followed."

Keith snorts, lifting his head to give Lance a flat look. They pull back, but their arms linger, neither one of them taking the initiative to step away. "No shit. _Why_ was he following me?"

At that, Lance's brows furrow, lips twisting into a small frown. He searches Keith's face, and while a pause is usually indicative of a fey figuring out how to maneuver around a lie, Lance just looks thoughtful. Frustrated, but thoughtful nonetheless. "I don't know." He shakes his head, taking a reluctant step back. His arms fall from Keith, and Keith's own feel colder as they drop to his sides. "I don't know what about you caught his interest, or why he was following you. But we can't let him get to you."

"What would've happened?" He asks, hands flexing as he fights down the way his stomach churns. "If he had caught up to me?"

Lance shakes his head once more. "I don't know. I don't know what he wanted."

He reaches out then, snagging Keith's right wrist and pulling his arm between them. The fingers of his other hand lightly trace the symbol on Keith's dagger tattoo. The one that outlines his birthmark. His eyes stay fixed on it, looking strangely whimsical and saddened all at once. His touch makes goosebumps rise on Keith's skin.

"But your fey blood is of the winter court. If they get ahold of you, they'll feel like they have a claim to you." He looks up then, eyes hard as steel. His lips press into a small scowl. There's a flare of something beneath the ice of his irises that sends fissures and cracks throughout the sea of blue. "I won't let that happen."

"So..." Keith feels a tug at the corner of his lips. There's a strange bubbling lightness in his chest, and he still feels oddly dizzy from Lance's touch. Somehow he manages to keep his voice level as he quirks an eyebrow and says, "Does that mean you're going to walk me home like a proper gentleman?"

There's a twitch at Lance's lips, tilting them into that familiar lopsided smile. He takes a step back, hands moving into the pockets of his jacket. "As much as I'd like to, no. If he sees you with me, that'll just spark his interest in you more. The favorite human of a lord of the summer court? The entire winter court will be interested in you if they find out."

Keith feels his smile tug wider and a teasing lilt leak into his voice as he says, "I'm your favorite human?"

Lance doesn't answer, but neither does his smile fade. "He'll expect you to come out of the park on the other end of this path. I'll go make sure he's distracted." He takes another step, pointing across the field and the distant playground to another one of the park's exits. "You leave that way, but don't go straight home unless you know for certain that you're not being watched."

Keith rolls his eyes, already stepping off the path to jog across the field. "I know."

"And Keith? Be careful."

He glances over his shoulder, surprised by his own sincerity as he says, "You, too."

Lance just grins, teeth looking sharp as they glint in the early afternoon light. Something flashes in his eyes, cold and predatory. "I always am."

Keith watches him go, trying to figure out the strange fizzing feeling in his chest. He comes to the conclusion that it feels like gratitude, but there's something more there. Something he doesn't want to think too hard about.

When he makes it home, he texts Lance that he got there safe.

He tries not to think too hard about that either.

* * *

The buzz of the needle is loud but familiar, filling up the parlor. It drags him down into his working headspace and keeps him firmly there, oblivious to the chatter of Lance and Pidge across the room and only vaguely aware of the music playing over the speakers.

The vibration of the machine hums through his hand, up his arm to resonate comfortably in his chest. He revels in it. In the strange extension of his arm. His paintbrush, capable of permanently infusing his canvas with ink to bring his creativity to life.

Too bad his canvas is squirmy as hell.

"Matt, for the last time," he says with a sigh, pulling the needle away from his arm and using his other hand to wipe the space of excess blood and ink. He leans back, dipping the needle in the little cap of ink once more. "You're gonna need to stop squirming."

"I can't help it, man," Matt says, a furrow between his brows. He looks up from his phone, glancing at the arm that's propped up and pinned beneath Keith's hand. "It feels weird."

Keith huffs a short laugh. "Of course, it does. I'd be more worried if you didn't feel anything at all."

"Oh, trust me, I feel it _a lot_."

"That's because you have a wimpy pain tolerance!" Pidge calls from across the room. Matt tilts his head back to glare at her, scowl on his features as he tries to flip her off without dropping his phone.

"It's not _pain_ , Katie! It just feels _weird_."

"So you're saying it doesn't hurt?" Lance asks from his perch. He sits on a stool near where Pidge is manning the front desk. He sits on the edge of it, feet hooked on the high rungs beneath him, hands planted on the seat between his spread thighs. He leans forward, as if that might help him get a better view of the process from across the room.

Keith had agreed that Lance could come in and watch him tattoo as long as he didn't get in the way. Lance hadn't gotten _in the way_ exactly, but he had been hovering so close that Keith could barely focus with the way goosebumps rose on his flesh and the nape of his neck tingled from the caress of Lance's breath.

So Keith had banished him across the room and told him not to move from the stool until he was done. He's surprised the fey is listening, but Lance never ceases to prove himself an odd one.

"Well, it _does_ hurt." Matt winces as the buzzing of the needle starts up again and Keith bends over his arm, pressing the tip once more to flesh. "Feels like a knife dragging across my skin, to be honest. But it also feels... I don't know, _weird_."

Pidge snorts. "Eloquent."

Matt rolls his eyes, settling back into his chair. His hips squirm, legs restless as they cross and recross at the ankles. But thankfully his arm stays still. "It's hard to explain... It's like there's something crawling under my skin, but that could just be the vibration of the needle?"

"No, that's your blood," Keith says without looking up. He leans back to dip it in ink while wiping his arm. He looks over his work. Nearly done. "You said you wanted a special tattoo, so that's what you're getting ."

"I didn't think it would feel like fireflies digging around beneath my skin."

Keith lifts his gaze, giving Matt a flat look and deadpans, "I'm infusing magic into your blood and flesh, what do you expect?"

Matt frowns, looking back to his phone as he grumbles, "Well, when you put it that way..."

"Are you almost done?" Lance calls.

"No." He hears Lance's disgruntled mumble, but the words are lost as he starts up the needle once more.

Their conversation is lost to the hum and the rumble of music. It's strangely comfortable having Lance here. Not nearly as awkward as he thought it'd be. Not after Lance settled into his seat and started chatting amiably with Pidge. She had been uncertain of him at first, as had Matt, but they had relaxed after some reassurances from both Keith and Shiro.

And it hadn't taken long for Pidge to be laughing alongside Lance as he tells stories, hands moving wildly to illustrate his points, pouting as Pidge teased him.

It's an easy transition, just like everything else.

Lance just seems to _fit_.

"Alright, I'm done with the base lines." He leans back, reaching to his table to rinse the needle.

He pulls off one of his gloves pushing the needle to his own thumb until it breaks the skin. After letting it absorb the welling of blood from the small wound, he dips it into a specialty ink. Fey ink. Ink specifically made by magic to be a conduit _for_ magic. Shiro gets it specially made, delivered to his shop by sources in the fey world that he's never divulged. He knows it comes from some contact he still has in the summer court, but he doesn't need to know any details.

And honestly? He doesn't care. As long as Shiro can get the ink. He uses it to tattoo fey, and Keith uses it in tandem with his inherent blood magic to create magical tattoos.

Most of his tattoos are infused with simple things. A boost to the immune system. Helping them sleep. Giving them a little strength. A little more endurance. A little more luck. A charm to keep them warmer in the winter or cooler in the summer. He talks to all of his customers, learns a little about them, and helps them where he can.

Not that they know about it, but he gets amazing reviews. It helps that his tattoos are also magically imbued to hold color, hold their lines, heal quickly, and they never fade.

Sometimes, though, in cases of friends, he's willing to create more complex tattoos.

"That can't be sanitary," Matt mumbles, watching as Keith uses the needle to swirl his drop of blood in with the ink.

He shrugs. "Probably not."

"This is insane."

"It's magic. If it makes you feel any better, you're not going to get sick from my blood. I can make sure of that."

"I sure hope so..."

He moves forward once more, placing a hand on Matt's arm and hovering the tattoo gun above his arm. "I'm going to start on the eye now. Ready?"

Matt breathes out, long and ragged. "As I'll ever be."

Keith cocks a sympathetic smile. "It won't hurt any more than usual, but I've heard it feels really weird."

" _Great_." Matt takes in a deep breath, steeling himself as he purses his lips. "I'm ready. Go for it."

Keith chuckles, turning his attention back to Matt's arm. He takes a deep breath, letting his eyes drift shut as he reaches inward, touching that bundle of magic that lies so close to his heart, pulsing through his veins. It's already been unfurled, letting heat radiate through his blood as he's been working. He's been letting some of it seep into Matt, twisting and shaping and using his blood to form components of the tattoo.

To make sure the shape holds. To help the healing process. To make sure it lasts.

But now he lets that bushel of magic inside himself truly bloom. Lets the power pulse through his veins with every beat of his heart. It vibrates in time with the tattoo gun in his hand. Warmth flooding his system. A prickling just beneath the skin.

He breathes out, opening his eyes as he places the needle to flesh.

"Whoa, dude..." Matt breathes. "Your eyes are yellow."

"I know," he mumbles. "Shut up and let me concentrate."

He focuses on the push and pull of the needle. The drag of it across flesh. He can feel the blood infused ink beneath his fingertips, calling out to him. Still connected to him. He uses it. Binds with it. Uses it to shape. Gives it intention. Gives it purpose. Infuses that purpose into Matt's own blood.

The ink is clear, but as he paints across Matt's skin, color appears. Under some lines, but not others. He zones in on it. Lost to the motions. Lost to the vision he holds in his mind. Distantly he's aware of the fact that the others have stopped talking and the faint pulse of classic rock is the only thing that accompanies the hum of the needle.

When the last stroke is complete, he blinks, released from his trance. "Done." Leaning back, he wipes the area, tilting his head as he admires his work. He lets go of the bloom of magic in his chest, letting it curl up once more, slowly easing out of his veins. The prickling fades, but the phantom hum of it remains.

Shaking his head, he turns, setting the tattoo gun aside to grab a clean rag, wetting it before wiping Matt's arm clean. The tattoo is complex, but made completely of simple interlocking geometric shapes. It runs down the inside of his forearm, reminiscent of the planets aligned, decorated with other lines and dots and curves.

It looks like any other black and white tattoo. Nice, but fairly ordinary.

"What do you think?"

Matt sits up, staring at his arm as he flexes it, turning it this way and that to see it from different angles. "Damn, dude. It looks great. Uh, and you're sure it'll do the thing?"

Keith nods, leaning forward to gently tap the symbol meant to represent the Earth. "If any fey tries to use magic on you, the Earth will open up to reveal the simple amber eye that I showed you on the mock up. The curse won't stick, but you may feel your body get a little warm as your blood burns off the magic. The eye will close once it's all out of your system."

Matt's grin is wide and wild, eyes sparkling. "That's _awesome_ , man."

Keith shrugs, small smile on his lips as he bandages Matt's arm before peeling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash. "It's not often I get to work on projects like this. It was fun." He nods toward the front desk. "Pidge will ring you up and give you the aftercare speech. I'm gonna start cleaning up."

He's barely managed to clean anything before he feels the chill of Lance's presence and a rush of warmth that accompanies his voice as he says, "You're done now."

He can't help the soft chuckle that escapes him. "Yeah."

"I can move from my stool now."

Keith glances over his shoulder, finding himself face to face with the fey. His hands rest on Keith's tattooing chair, leaning back against it and he tilts his head, eyes on Keith, lidded and dark. "I can see that."

"That was incredible." There's a sincerity in his voice, pitched low and awed, that has warmth prickling the back of Keith's neck.

He looks away, clearing his throat as he busies himself with throwing away the excess ink and putting the bottles away. "It wasn't much. Just... the only thing my magic seems good for."

"You found a creative use for it." Lance pulls himself up onto the chair, legs idly swinging as he watches Keith. "You always were an artist," he says softly.

Keith's eyes snap to him, but Lance is staring at the tattoo gun in his hands. Before he can question him, Lance points at the machine.

"Does that hurt to use?"

"This?" He looks at it, caught off guard for a moment before it clicks. He shakes his head. "No, Shiro made sure to order ones for the shop that don't contain any iron or steel." Keith hefts it in one hand, pulling off the spent needle. "I'm not really sensitive to iron, but even Shiro could use this one."

"What about your piercings?"

Keith looks up at him, blinking in confusion. "What about them?"

Lance tilts his head to the side, eyes roaming Keith's face. His gaze drifts over his eyebrow for a moment, but lingers for far longer on his bottom lip. "Does it bother you to have metal like that?"

Out of reflex, Keith touches his lip ring with his tongue, sucking it into his mouth for a moment. He doesn't miss the way Lance's eyes widen for a moment before going lidded. Or the slow drag of them upward to meet Keith's gaze.

There's a shiver down his spine and a prickle of heat settling low in his gut that he knows has nothing to do with his magic. He shakes his head again, turning his back to Lance to finish cleaning up his station.

The man— the _fey_ — is far too distracting and far too alluring for Keith's own good.

"No, the jewelry I wear is made out of titanium. The iron content is too small for me to notice. I tried stainless steel once, and that didn't burn me, but my body rejected it after a while."

"I wonder if it would burn me..." Lance's voice is as soft as a breeze. Thoughtful.

When Keith glances over his shoulder, Lance is no longer looking at him. Instead, his eyes are fixated on the small vase of forget-me-nots displayed on his work station. Still as bright blue and pristine as ever, without a single sign of wilting.

There's a gentle smile on his lips that makes Keith's heart flip, squeezing tight even as it melts.

He's suddenly overwhelmed with the insane urge to touch. The compulsion to reach out and cup that sharp jawline in his palm. To run his thumb over those spots on his cheekbones where his glamour is the thickest. To let himself be lost in the depths of those ocean eyes and lean in to let himself drown—

He turns around abruptly, retreating toward Shiro's office with stiff steps. He needs to tell Shiro that he's done with Matt's tattoo so they can open the shop up properly. But more importantly, he needs to put distance between himself and Lance before he does something stupid.

* * *

"Okay, so sour cream and onion or barbecue?"

"Hmm?" Keith looks up from his phone, blinking as he's met with Pidge's flat stare. In her hands, she holds two chip bags. "Oh, uh... both?"

Her lips screw up for a moment, brows furrowing before she shrugs. "Fair enough. I can keep any left overs."

Keith snorts a short laugh. "Do you really think there will be leftovers?"

"If I buy cheap cheese balls to keep Matt distracted there will be. Mind grabbing that tub for me?"

"Sure." He tucks the large plastic barrel under one arm before turning back to his phone. He's not sure why he bothers. He hasn't gotten a new message in days, but he scrolls the conversation anyway. It's stupid, but he can't stop the compulsion any more than he can stop the long exhale that slips past his lips.

Pidge groans, spinning on her heel and walking backwards down the aisle. "Okay, spill."

He glances up, brows pinching. "What?"

"You've been moping all fucking day. _And_ yesterday. And you keep staring at your phone and sighing."

His lips press into a frown. "I'm not moping."

"Things go south with lover boy?"

"No," he snaps, a little too quickly if the quirk of a mischievous grin on Pidge's impish face is anything to go by. Keith clicks off his phone, shoving it in his pocket before pushing past her, turning the corner at the end of the aisle. "And don't call him that."

"What? Lover boy?"

He ignores her, looking down the aisles as he passes them. Matt had asked them to also pick up some mixers for drinks tonight. "And things haven't gone south."

"Oh, so things are going well?" He can see her hovering at his elbow, can hear the smirk in her voice, and ignores her.

"Things are just... going. Sort of."

"Sort of?" He shrugs, turning down the soda aisle. "What? Has he been ignoring you?"

"No." Again, too quickly. He grits his teeth as she whistles, long and low.

"That's it, isn't it?" God, he hates that curling lopsided smirk. He glares at her, but she just laughs. "Oh my god, you've been moping around because your boyfriend's been ignoring you."

"He's not my boyfriend, and he's not _ignoring_ me. He's just... busy."

"Doing what?"

"I don't know. Fey stuff." He grabs a bottle of coke and starts back the way they came, making sure to shove heavily at her shoulder.

She isn't deterred in the slightest. There's laughter in her voice as she follows after him. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Cinderella. I'm sure your prince is gonna come looking for you soon. That boy is fucking enamored with you."

Keith can feel the heat itching at the back of his neck, creeping up to settle on his cheeks. "Whatever."

"Hey." A hand on his arm stops him, and he turns to look at her, surprised by the sudden shift in her tone. Her smile is gone, lips instead pressed into a worried line. Brows furrowed, her sharp eyes search his face. "I know Lance is cool and all, and he's approved by Shiro, Hunk, and Shay, but... he's still... _you know_. One of them. So... be careful, okay?"

Keith's scowl softens, a smile daring to tug at his lips. Hands full, he shows a touch of affection by lightly kicking her foot with his own. "I will, okay?" He says softly.

She doesn't look entirely convinced. Her nose wrinkles as she huffs a breath of air upward into her bangs. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

"Yeah," he sighs. "I do, too." Movement catches his eye at the end of the aisle, but when he lifts his head to look, there's nothing there.

Still, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end and a shiver crawls down his spine, sending a prickling sensation dancing across his flesh. He could've sworn he saw something shining. Something like glamour.

"What is it?" Pidge asks, turning around.

"I... I don't know. Do you feel anything, you know, _off_?"

Pidge's lips press tight in thought. "I'm... not sure. Maybe? Kinda like a low hum? Why? Did you see something?"

He shakes his head, already turning. "I thought so, but I don't know. Let's just get out of here."

"Yeah, sure thing." When they reach the end of the aisle, Pidge bumps her hip against Keith's. "And man, stop looking so gloomy. We're gonna go get drunk with our friends, eat our body weight in junk food, and play video games all night. No more thinking about fey boys."

He can't help the ghost of a smile. "What about Shiro?"

Pidge scoffs. "He barely counts. He's basically human at this point. Do you know if he's bringing Adam with him tonight?"

"He said he'd think about it, but I think he's scared we'll embarrass him."

"Smart man."

Keith can't stop his gaze from wandering as they check out. He doesn't spot any fey, but he can't shake the feeling of being watched. It's a feeling that prickles at the back of his neck, twisting tight inside his chest and vibrating aimlessly throughout his limbs.

The inherent need to flee from danger, even if it can't be identified. And he's never been one to ignore his gut instincts.

As soon as their bags are stowed in the compartment of his bike and both of them are seated, he revs the engine and peels out of the parking lot, Pidge's arms a startled vice around his middle and her shout lost to the wind.

* * *

Keith knows that he's been getting far closer to Lance than he should. He knows that he's been breaking all of the rules he's grown up with.

Don't make eye contact with a fey.

Don't get their attention.

Don't talk to them.

Don't encourage them.

Don't befriend them.

Don't trust them.

Check all of the above.

He's long since given up questioning his own strange behavior. Lance has this way of making him cave before he's even realized he's given in. There's just something about him that Keith can't resist. A deadly flame that he's helplessly drawn to. His one comfort is the fact that he trusts Shiro to interfere when he's doing something stupid, and Shiro hasn't said anything against Keith's obvious growing attachment.

And it's been growing so steadily that he hadn't realized just how bad it had gotten until Lance disappeared for a week, leaving Keith aimlessly checking his phone and restlessly agitated.

He's been fighting it. He's been firmly refusing to acknowledge his behavior since Lance's silence began. He's argued against Pidge's accusations of _mopey_ and claimed his extra training sessions on simple boredom.

But he can't deny the fact that his heart leaps into his throat the moment his phone vibrates and Lance's name lights up his screen.

 **Lance**  
> Come outside  
> Backyard

Pulse hammering in his ears, Keith can't even bring himself to be ashamed of how quickly he throws himself out of his bed. Or how quickly he rushes through the house, Kosmo darting past him to the back door, scratching at the seam and whining.

He slows as he reaches it, grabbing the handle and taking a moment to breathe deep. To settle his rapid heartbeat. There's a tightness in his chest and a heat coiling in his gut. A fluttering in his stomach and a buzz flitting through his limbs. He doesn't want to think too hard about it, so he opens the door.

Kosmo sprints out into the night, but Keith is slower.

He steps out onto the patio, stones cold against his bare feet and the night breeze cutting through the thin material of his pajamas, causing goosebumps to rise. He shivers, but the discomfort is chased away by the heat unfurling in his chest.

Lance stands in the center of the yard, stumbling under the weight of Kosmo as the wolf leaps up to greet him. He laughs, and the sound is like silver bells. Otherworldly and latching onto something buried deep in Keith's chest, tugging him forward.

He steps toward them, drawn to Lance and feet moving off their own accord. With greetings done, Kosmo leaves Lance to explore the yard, and Lance lifts his gaze to meet Keith's.

His breath catches in his throat.

Eyes dark in the night but gleaming a deep pearly blue, back lit and ethereal. The faint shimmer of his glamour shines silver in the moonlight, highlighting his cheekbones and the sharpness of his jaw. His lips pull into a small, lopsided smile. Eyes lidded and soft as Keith moves across the dewy grass.

"Hey," he breathes into the night, stopping a couple feet away.

"Hi." Lance sounds just as breathless. He holds his hands out to the side, head tilting just a fraction. "Surprise."

"You're back." He doesn't mean for it to sound accusatory.

Lance's arms drop to his sides, smile dimming as his brow furrows. "I am."

Keith crosses his arms over his chest, both to ward off the chill and to keep himself from doing something stupid. Like reaching out to him with trembling hands. "Where were you?"

"I had to go for a while. Back to court." His voice is carefully even and carefully neutral. The same way Shiro talks about fey and court matters. Cryptic and offhanded.

"You could've told me you were leaving."

The pinch between his brows relaxes, lips twitching up into a mischievous smirk that glints in his eyes. "Did you miss me?"

"No." It's too quick.

Lance's smirk curls wider, right before it shifts. Softening. Mischievous glee replaced by something Keith doesn't want to read too far into. "It was a last minute thing. I didn't get much warning. And phones don't work in the fey realm." He tilts his head to the side, that look in his eyes never fading, making Keith's stomach twist and flip. "I didn't tell you because I honestly thought you wouldn't notice or care."

Keith purses his lips tight, voice stiff and clipped as he says, "Yeah, well, you were wrong."

Lance chuckles. "I'll admit I'm a little happy about that."

He steps forward, and while Keith tenses, he doesn't move away. Lance stops right in front of him, lifting a hand, fingers curled, before hesitating. There's an uncertainty in his eyes. Lips pursed into a small, contemplative frown.

Keith lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes before leaning into the touch.

Lance hesitates for only a moment before the back of his fingers move along Keith's jaw, gentle and reverent. Keith finds himself holding his breath as Lance cups his jaw, thumb brushing idly across his cheek. He stands far too stiff, even as he leans into the touch. Despite the painful pound of his heart against his ribs, he keeps his eyes firmly shut tight. Scared of whatever expression Lance might be wearing. Afraid that seeing it might unravel the last of his resolve.

Lance's skin is smooth but his fingertips and palm oddly calloused. Keith's skin burns beneath his touch. A spark of magic between them, like static, but he isn't sure who's to blame.

"I had business to deal with," Lance says, voice breathless and low. "But I couldn't stay away from you forever. I never seem to be able to. You're a dangerous man, Keith Kogane."

Lance's thumb shifts from his cheek to the corner of his lips, hesitating before moving too close to his piercing. Still, the touch of the calloused pad of his thumb makes his knees tremble.

He turns then, pulling out of Lance's grip and stepping away from him. He doesn't open his eyes until he's several feet away, and even then he doesn't turn around. Not until he's back on the solid stones of the patio, feeling more grounded and with fresh air in his lungs.

One hand on the door, he finally turns. Lance hasn't moved, still standing in the center of their yard. Watching him with eyes that shine in the moonlight. There's a sorrow that hangs on his expression, and it gives an unexpected tug at the hollow in Keith's chest, echoing with a strange sense of familiarity.

He knows it's not smart, so he tries not to think about it as he nods his head toward the house. "You coming?"

Lance blinks, eyes going wide as his mouth goes slack. "You're... inviting me inside?"

He shouldn't. He knows he should keep his distance. Lance is far more dangerous than he'd originally feared. Slipping past his defenses far too easily. "Yeah, I am."

Lance is at his side in just a few long strides, leaning in close enough that Keith can feel his breath ghosting across his skin. His eyes spark with a strange sort of challenge, lips curled into a mischievous smirk as he says, "Didn't Shiro ever tell you not to invite strange fey into your home? The threshold is your last line of defense."

"I've never been very good at listening." Keith finds his own smile forming. Small and slight, but curling all the same. He meets Lance's gaze with his own silent challenge, pulling the sliding door open. He knows the moment Lance steps over the threshold, there will be no going back. He's welcoming the man into his life. But he can't deny the thrill that sings in his veins and the excitement that flutters in his chest. "Besides, I'm pretty sure I can handle you."

He hopes he’s right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
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> 
> I'm most active on twitter. To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
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	3. Never Dance With Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's falling, and he knows it. It's a truth he wants to deny, but the lie tastes sour on his tongue. 
> 
> The fact remains that Lance is becoming a fixed staple in Keith's life, and as much as he knows he should be wary of it, there's just something about Lance that feels so... _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants more soft pining fey boys? Come get your food, klance fandom <33 Wittyy is here to feed you

Time is a weird thing. It's so easy to section a life and a future into designated chunks of time. Months. Years. Decades. And yet when you're living that life, it's so easy to get caught up in the daily grind that time slips through your fingers without being acknowledged. Can’t see the forest through the trees.

Keith is so wrapped up in the present that he doesn't realize it slipping by. Doesn't notice it streaking past him with a speed that feels dull to his senses. Doesn't realize that he's walking— jogging— sprinting towards a future that he's always been taught to avoid. A future where there are fey other than Shiro as permanent fixtures in his life.

His life is simple in the grand scheme of things, and he finds comfort in the routine.

He wakes up. He does his morning workout. He plays with Kosmo. He goes to work. He goes home. He lounges on the couch. He trains with Shiro. He hangs out with Pidge. He walks his dog.

These are the pillars of his daily life. His keystones. They're how he passes his days. How days turn to weeks. And they're still the same, but something has changed.

Because now Lance is a part of his life.

He now wakes up and checks his phone for texts, a little too eagerly and with far too much disappointment if there are none. He does his morning workout, eyes alert and looking for Lance as he runs through town. He plays with Kosmo, listening for any vibrations from his phone. He goes to work. Sometimes Lance visits. Sometimes he brings lunch. He goes home. He lounges on the couch. Sometimes they talk on the phone. Sometimes he meets up with Lance, doing nothing but just spending time together as friends might. He trains with Shiro. He hangs out with Pidge, who teases him about being glued to his phone. He walks his dog with Lance through the park that he promises is safe.

He doesn't know when it happened, but he doesn't think it was all at once. Small things that compounded over time. One small, subtle step. Then another. Until suddenly he can turn around and find that they've covered a far distance. Lance has somehow managed to bypass all of Keith's defenses, weaseling and sliding right into his life, making himself easily a part of all of Keith's keystones. Weaving himself into Keith's daily pillars.

Until he can't imagine his daily life without Lance.

Until time only seems to matter when Lance is there.

Until he finds himself simply waiting for time to pass enough for them to see each other again.

He doesn't know how Lance managed to slip past his defenses. How he managed to slink right into Keith's life and make a place for himself without setting off any alarms. To the point where, even now when Keith realizes what's happening, he isn't worried enough to stop it. Because for some reason, he _likes_ having Lance in his life. He can't imagine stopping it now that it's begun. He's helpless to fight the tide as it drags him under.

And, strange as it all is, he's _happy_.

So he lets it happen, telling himself that if Lance truly is a threat, Shiro would say something. Shiro's _always_ been over protective of Keith, especially when it comes to fey. It doesn't matter how high of a fey Lance is, if he was a threat, Shiro would say something.

And that's the lifeline Keith clings to as he lets himself get swept away.

* * *

He doesn't realize how bad it's become until Shiro comes home one night to find the two of them sitting on the couch together.

Keith sits with one leg dangling off the edge to the floor, the other bent and folded, knee resting against the back of the couch. He idly pets Kosmo, curled up in front of him. Lance sits behind him, legs crossed and sitting close enough that his knees frame Keith's hips. Not that he's noticed. Or has been paying attention to the heat of that touch and the way his skin feels electrified.

No, he's too distracted by Lance's fingers running through his hair. Nails scraping lightly against his scalp and sending shivers down his spine. Running gently and almost reverently through his hair as he detangles it, muttering under his breath about how it's _not fair that your hair is this soft when you do nothing to it, Keith_.

He's about halfway through braiding Keith's hair when Shiro walks in the door.

Keith had been so wrapped up in the ease of it all. Of getting out of work and texting Lance. Of Lance coming over because Keith was too tired to meet him somewhere else. Of lounging with Lance on the couch. Of watching movies together. Of Lance getting on a tirade about his hair and then insisting he braid it.

It's just... so easy. So easy that Keith doesn't _think_ about it. He can’t ever forget what Lance is, but the ease that he feels around him makes it easier to ignore. It doesn't feel like he's spending the evening with a high fey of the summer court. It feels like he's just spending time with _Lance_. A boy who's far too cute for Keith's own good, who makes him laugh and feel comfortable in his own skin and tugs at this part of himself that always feels just out of reach—

And he doesn't realize how strange it is until Shiro is standing in the doorway, staring at them with wide eyes and eyebrows reaching his hairline, blinking slowly as his face goes blank in his surprise.

Keith freezes, eyes locking onto Shiro, back uncomfortably straight as his heart beats against his ribs and a nervousness shifts beneath his skin in a wave.

Lance stiffens behind him. He feels Lance's legs tense, knees pushing into his hips. The fingers in his hands stop, frozen mid-braid.

The door slowly clicks shut behind Shiro, but he still hasn't moved, his eyes slowly sliding between the two of them.

Kosmo lifts his head, tail idly thumping against the couch, oblivious to the mounting tension.

Then Kosmo slides off the couch, sprinting across the room to greet Shiro, knocking the wind out of him and nearly toppling him over as he leaps up on him. Shiro lets out a rush of air as he catches Kosmo, stumbling back a step. He chuckles as his hands run through Kosmo's fur, and the moment shatters.

Keith relaxes, and Lance continues to braid his hair.

"Hey, Shiro," Keith says, voice trailing on an exhale.

"Hey, Keith. Lance." Shiro eyes them curiously as he pushes Kosmo away to kick off his shoes, stepping further into the house. "I didn't know you'd be here." He doesn't sound upset about it. Merely curious. But that curiosity has a new kind of nervousness shifting beneath Keith's skin.

"It wasn't really planned," Lance says. It's casual, but Keith can hear the smile in his voice.

"Keith actually invited you inside." It's framed as a statement, but one brimming with enough curiosity and surprise that it might as well be a question.

Keith purses his lips, but Lance chuckles behind him. "He actually invited me inside for the first time a few weeks ago."

"Is that so?"

Keith looks away, trying not to squirm under the weight of Shiro's gaze. He knows there will be a lot of questions there that he doesn't want to answer. A lot of questions he's not sure he's _ready_ to answer. Shiro's voice is carefully even, almost lilting with a lightheartedness that nearly masks his concern.

Nearly, but not quite.

Because the fact of the matter is that Shiro had made Keith promise years ago that he would never invite a fey into their home. And that was a promise Keith had readily made. One that he never intended to break.

Thresholds are a powerful thing. They're a barrier between someone's home and the outside world. And the more life, love, and energy that goes into a home, the stronger the threshold is. The threshold to their home is their last line of defense. Fey can't cross them without leaving their powers behind. Most fey would rather not cross at all rather than risk being helpless. But an invited fey can cross without leaving anything behind.

And Keith had invited Lance inside.

There's a heaviness to that act and a deepness of trust that Keith isn't willing to face. So he keeps his eyes on Kosmo as the wolf crawls back up onto the couch, scratching behind his ears rather than meet Shiro's concerned gaze. He's not ready to face the weight of what he's done.

The strangest part? He doesn't regret it. Not at all. Lance feels safe in his home. He _likes_ having Lance in his home. There's a strange thrill in that fact that weaves around Keith's heart and plucks at strings that have long since been silent.

Shiro doesn't sound angry at least, so Keith will take that as a win.

"Have you eaten yet?" Shiro asks as he moves further into the house, dropping his bag in an empty chair as he goes to the kitchen.

"No, not yet," Keith calls back. Lance reaches forward, blindly slapping at Keith's arm and making grabbing motions with his fingers. Keith rolls his eyes and slips the hair tie off his wrist, handing it to Lance with a small smile.

"Good." Shiro reappears, water bottle in hand. He's already on his way to his room. "We should train before we make dinner."

Keith's smile drops, lips pursing into a small frown. "Do we have to?"

Shiro pauses, turning to look at him. His brows furrow, and Keith hates that disappointed look. Still, he doesn't look away, holding his gaze with a small scowl. "Keith." Great. There's that reproachful warning voice.

Keith sighs loudly, letting his head loll to the side and ignoring Lance's noise of protest as he tries to tie off Keith's braid. "Come _on_ , Shiro. We've been training almost every night."

He doesn't openly sigh, but Keith can definitely see the exhale in the way his shoulders sag. "Keith," he says softly, trying for a small encouraging smile. "We need to stick to our routine to make sure we stay in shape."

"One night isn't going to kill my form."

"Keith—"

"Lance is here." He winces as soon as the words are out, tensing as he tries to reel in the twitch of his features. He hadn't meant for it to sound so— so _whiny_. Pitiful, really. It turns his scowl into a pout in no time flat. But he holds Shiro's gaze without yielding.

The silent battle of wills is a short one. He's not above begging with his eyes, and Shiro has always been weak to that. He sees Shiro's defenses crumbling fast, and he knows he's won when Shiro looks away, running his fingers through his hair, defeat etched onto his features. "I guess one night off isn't going to hurt—"

"You should train."

Lance's fingers fall from his hair, and Keith turns to look at him, blinking in surprise. His hair feels strange pulled back like this, bangs out of his face, but he can't dwell on it right now. Not when Lance is sitting there, smiling at him with this small, apologetic look.

Keith's brows furrow, and he frowns as he says, "What?"

Lance's smile twitches a fraction wider, lop-sided as he tilts his head, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The blue depths of those swirl, dark and gleaming like churning midnight waters, giving away none of his secrets. "You should train," he repeats, nodding toward Shiro.

"But..." He trails off, pursing his lips to keep the pitiful _you're here_ from rolling off his tongue.

Lance is already leaning back, lounging against the arm of the couch in a show of ease as he prods Keith with his feet. "Go on, get going."

Keith shoves his feet away, reluctantly standing. "I thought you wanted to hang out with me." It's meant to be a tease. He hates the dull ache in his chest.

He thinks he sees it reflected on Lance's face, curbed with that sad smile. "I do, but this is more important. You need to get stronger."

Keith frowns at that, something itching at the back of his mind. Suspicion that trickles down his spine, taking root in his chest and refusing to leave until he says, "But why?"

He looks from Shiro to Lance, and he watches as both of their expressions shift from open and comfortable to something more closed off. Like slipping on a porcelain mask. Easing their features into something they've carefully crafted but not quite real. Living plaster. Not a crack or seam in sight. Perfectly sculpted to mirror what they want to be seen and hide the cards they hold close to their hearts.

It's eery to watch, sending a shiver down Keith's spine. They look so close to being human, but something is just _off_. Something that whispers _otherworldly_ to the more subconscious part of his mind. An instinct deep within his genetic make-up that recognizes them as _other_.

It's in moments like these that Keith can truly feel the chasm between them. When he really understands that no matter how much he trusts them, they're still fey. And they have their instincts just like he does.

"Why is it so important?" He asks when it's clear they're holding fast to silence. His gaze fixes on Lance, narrowed and stubborn. He's tried to crack through Shiro's mask, but it never gives. Lance, though... maybe he can pry it off. "Why do I need to train so much? What does it matter?"

But the blue depths of Lance's eyes have gone still. They've always swirled with color, like the multi-faceted fractals of a gem stone turning in the light. But now, they're still. Flat and focused. Reflective and eerily calm as a pond at daybreak. His smile is still in place, and his voice has the illusion of lighthearted emotion while still sounding hollow when Keith is used to the real thing. "We just want you to be prepared for anything."

Keith's eyes narrow. He's learned how to read subtext, and Lance's words are always filled with it. "So you're behind all the training, too." He sees Lance blink. A crack. And feels immense satisfaction at Lance's bewilderment.

"I—"

"Lance agrees with me that it's best if you're ready for anything," Shiro cuts in, drawing Keith's attention away. But not before he sees Lance's breath of relief. "Especially after winter fey have started to notice you."

Keith's eyes snap back to Lance with a new fury. "You told him?"

Lance looks away, squirming as he crosses his arms over his chest. "I thought it was important for him to know."

"Keith," Shiro's voice brings his attention back, hardened and serious. His mask melts away, and Keith is faced with all of his worry and resolution. "This is... extremely serious. We don't know who's noticed you or why. We don't know how long their interest will last. But if they catch you at a time where we aren't around... we want to know that you'll be able to take care of yourself."

Keith feels his own resolve weakening when faced with Shiro's open and earnest worry. He's always been like that. Always concerned over Keith's safety. About the fey finding him and what they might do to him. He feels the budding of guilt souring in his gut. With everything that's been happening with Lance, he might have forgotten just how much of a threat the fey are.

Though, in a way, it just emphasizes how much Shiro trusts Lance if none of the worry or blame is about him.

"Fine," Keith sighs, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair only to find it braided. His eyes flicker to Lance briefly, taking note of the fact that his mask has melted into a genuine smile, amusement dancing like light motes in his eyes. He looks back to Shiro. "Let's get this over with."

He leaves Lance on the couch, hearing him coo over Kosmo as he and Shiro make their way down to the basement.

"So," Shiro says as they move through their warm up stretches. Keith refuses to look at him. He can _hear_ the shit-eating grin in his voice. "You invited Lance across the threshold."

"Shut up, Shiro."

"I'm just saying that's a pretty big deal."

"Are we going to train or not?"

"You have a forget-me-not in your hair."

"What?" He reaches back immediately, patting the braid until he finds it— sure enough, woven into the plaited hair, is a small flower.

"You like him." It's not a question. Nor is it said with any sort of mirth. It's almost... sad. Melancholy in a way that's resigned. Trailing on the tail of wistful. Keith doesn't realize he's smiling until it fades.

"I do not."

"I envy your ability to lie."

"I'm not lying." The words taste sour on his tongue, twisting in his heart as it hammers against his ribs.

Shiro just hums, dropping into his defensive stance. Keith does the same, out of habit more than anything. He waits, but Shiro doesn't charge. Instead, he says, "Just... be careful, okay?"

Keith's brows furrow. Dread and confusion and an unexplainable thrill nibble at his gut. "Will he hurt me?" He asks, voice far smaller than he intended.

There's that smile again. Strangely sad. Strangely not. "No," he says with certainty. Before Keith can question him further, Shiro charges. Their conversation fades, laid to rest as it's overrun with the routine of training and the flow of hand-to-hand combat.

But the remnants of it stay with him. Echoing around in his chest even after they finish. Reverberating through his heart as he tries to regulate his breathing, climbing the stairs back into the main house.

But Lance is gone.

There's an ache in his chest, hollowed out by the echo of silence and Lance's absence. He finds a forget-me-not lying innocently on his phone, and as he holds it gingerly between his fingers, he's reminded of the chasm between them. Because no matter how close he gets to Lance, no matter how easily the man has managed to ease into his life, the fact remains that he's still a fey, and Keith is still an ironblood.

Keith has grown up adamantly avoiding the attention of fey, _especially_ court fey. And Lance has grown up being told to avoid ironbloods at all costs.

They shouldn't be this close.

They're a danger to each other.

What Keith feels daring to bloom in his chest isn't supposed to last.

* * *

He's pulled from sleep by voices, though it takes him a moment to realize that they're not the echoes of a fading dream.

He struggles through the murk and muck of sleep, feeling it stick and cling to him as he wades toward consciousness. Everything feels slow and disorienting, and he finds himself staring at his ceiling before he's fully aware that his eyes are open.

Blinking, he rubs his eyes, a disgruntled sigh escaping his lips. His arms flop back down to the bed as he looks around, mind slow and blurring. He can still hear the voices. They're hissed and strained, like a whisper gone out of control. Loud enough to be heard, but too muffled for words to be distinct. The tone is what catches his attention, though. Sharp and rushed. His body registers the urgency before his mind does, sending adrenaline into his veins, breath coming short, and his heart pumping in a poor mimicry of fight-or-flight.

The voices sound too real to be coming from a tv or recording. There's no background noise to accompany them, and there's clearly two.

After a moment of strained listening, he realizes that he recognizes both of them.

Kosmo looks up as he throws the blankets off and rolls out of bed. Keith reaches out to pat his head, whispering a soft, "Go back to sleep." Whether he understands him or not, Keith isn't sure. But he lets out a disgruntled huff and lies back down.

The voices get slightly louder as he opens his bedroom door, and he pads out into the house. Sluggishness still clings to his movements, but his bare feet take careful and silent steps out of habit. Rubbing one eye, he rounds the corner of the hallway, eyes going to the backdoor. It's left open a crack, and the voices are definitely coming from outside.

Voices that he definitely recognizes.

Voices that are definitely arguing.

He pushes the sliding door open wider, stepping out onto the back porch. The stones are cold beneath his feet, and the chill of the night air makes goosebumps rise across his flesh. He hadn't really thought about putting on more clothes, stepping through the house in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt. But it hardly matters. He doesn't plan to be out here for long, and the moment a shiver runs through him, his magic reflexively unfurls from his core, sending a warming pulse through his veins.

Shiro and Lance stare at him, and he stares back, eyes narrowing as their conversation cuts off abruptly at his appearance.

Both of them look startled. Eyes wide and frozen in place. Clearly caught in the act of something Keith isn't supposed to be privy to. And the longer the stare down continues, the more that startlement dissolves into something far more sheepish. Shiro is still in his pajamas, hair mused from sleep, and Lance is still dressed for the day, implying that whatever this is, it wasn't planned.

Keith ignores the pang in his chest. The twist of something sharp and bitter at not having been included.

"Don't stop because of me," Keith says, voice still rough from sleep, as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"What're you doing up?" Shiro asks, soft and reproachful. Like he did when Keith was young and slunk into his room after a nightmare.

"I heard you two talking," he says simply, glancing between the two of them. "What were you arguing about?"

"We weren't—" Shiro cuts off, mouth snapping shut and twisting into a frustrated frown. It's almost laughable how being with humans for so long often has Shiro forgetting that he can't lie. He huffs, crossing his own arms over his chest. "Fine, we were arguing."

"About what?"

Shiro and Lance exchange a look, brows furrowed and lips pursed, a silent conversation passing between them. Lance bites at his bottom lip, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He shakes his head in a small, minuscule motion, and Shiro sighs.

When he looks back to Keith, he looks torn, but his features at set. Hard and resigned. "Don't worry about it."

"What's going on?"

His lips purse tight. Keith knows he wants to say _nothing_ , but he can't. Because it's _not_ nothing. Instead he repeats, "Don't worry about it."

Keith cocks an eyebrow. "You two are out here arguing in the middle of the night, you won't tell me what it's about, and you think I can just not worry about it?" They exchange another silent look. Both looking torn. Both looking guilty. But they don't say anything. "Is it about me?" The question is small. A whisper in the dark.

Shiro stiffens. Lance's eyes snap to his. Shiro turns slowly, voice careful as he says, "Not... completely."

"Fey business?" Keith asks flatly.

Shiro presses his lips tight. "Yes."

"Court business?"

Silence.

A trickle of fear runs down his spine, and he glances to Lance. He looks guilty, eyes on the ground as his brows furrow, lips pursed into a frown. He looks back to Shiro, and he hates how scared he sounds when he asks, "Are they making you go back to the court?"

Shiro blinks, surprise flitting across his features before he eases into a smile. "No. No, they're not."

Keith feels himself relaxing. "I'm not a kid anymore, Shiro," he tries, taking a step toward them. "And I'm not scared of them. You can tell me what's going on."

His smile doesn't fade, but it doesn't chase the melancholy from his eyes. "I wish I could," he says softly.

"Why can't you?"

"I swore an oath, Keith. It's part of the laws of our kind—"

"I know, I know," he sighs, turning his glare to the ground. "Break no oaths."

A hand comes down on his shoulder, heavy and familiar. He looks up at Shiro through his lashes, and faced with the man's genuine, apologetic smile and the warm squeeze of hand, he can't help but forgive him. If he's sworn to secrecy, then he knows it's not Shiro's fault. "I'm going to go back to bed," Shiro says, hand dropping from Keith's shoulder as he walks past. "Don't stay out too late and lock the door when you come in."

Keith watches him go, and he sees Shiro's smile fall as he turns. Sees the heaviness in his shoulders as he returns to the house.

Then a shuffling brings his attention back to Lance.

His hands are in his pockets, but his arms are too straight and shoulders too stiff. He shifts his weight, slowly stepping backwards. His eyes dart everywhere but don't make contact. "I should probably go—"

"Wait." Keith surprises them both, and he freezes having taken one step forward, a hand outstretched toward him. Lance's gaze shifts from his hand to his face, and Keith feels heat burn its way up the back of his neck to settle on his cheeks. He's grateful for the darkness as he shifts back, moving his hand to run it through his hair as he looks away. "You could... stay?"

"Stay?" Lance echoes.

Keith can barely hear him over the beat of his own heart. He shrugs. "Unless you were planning on coming by and leaving without seeing me?"

His smile is small and apologetic. "Sorry, I— I had business with Shiro."

"Fey business?"

"Fey business."

"Is the business... over?"

Lance's eyes flicker to the house, and then back to Keith. "I... guess so?"

"So..." Keith crosses his arms over his chest, suppressing a shiver as another night breeze rolls past his bare legs. He rocks back on his heels, taking a step toward the house. "Do you want to stay?"

"Stay?"

"Yeah."

"Here? With you?"

"Yeah."

"For the night?"

"That... is what I meant, yeah."

Lance's face scrunches up, lips pursing as several expressions pass over his features. He looks at Keith like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Then he tilts his head far too much to the side, one eyebrow raised comically high. "Are you _sure?_ "

Keith huffs out a breath. "You know what? Nevermind." He turns on his heel, intent on marching back toward the house while embarrassment burned hot in his chest, but he only gets a couple steps before Lance grabs his arm.

"Wait!" He glances over his shoulder, intent on scowling, but he'll admit he's tired and it might not have been as potent as intended. Lance, on the other hand is grinning, looking almost breathless despite only have gone a few steps. "I'd love to."

He's too tired to hide the relieved smile that tugs at his lips.

He guides Lance into the house, locking the door before padding back down the dark hall to his room. The awkwardness of the situation and his impulse decision is numbed by the late hour and the sluggishness seeping back into his veins as his adrenaline ebbs away.

He slips back into bed with a yawn, and it's only once he's wrapped up in his blankets once more that he realizes Lance is still standing in the doorway. He looks like a ghost. A shattered, fractal of a memory that doesn't quite exist in this moment. Like he doesn't quite belong here in Keith's room. The look on his face, uncertain and fond, wistful and sorrowful, is haunting.

Keith doesn't like it.

He scoots backwards, lifting up an arm to pull the blankets back and expose the space in his bed, mumbling a soft, "C'mon."

That's all it takes to jar Lance back into the moment. He steps into Keith's room, crossing whatever veil had been keeping him separate. He bleeds into the space. No longer a ghost, but _Lance_. Here and in the flesh.

He looks around curiously as he sheds his jacket, draping it over the back of Keith's desk chair.

The shift in his glamour is immaculate and fascinating to watch. He walks towards Keith's bed slowly, turning in a circle as he takes in the whole of his room. His glamour shifts as he does so. Subtle and without much direction. He wonders if Lance even realizes he's doing it, or if shifting his glamour is simply that much an innate part of him.

The clothes he wears shimmer in the moonlight seeping through Keith's blinds. They ruffle and shift, as if caught in a breeze. A pulse of light runs through them, from top to bottom, and as the shimmering light fades, new clothes appear in its wake.

When it's gone, Lance is standing in the middle of his room, wearing blue silken pajamas with yellow accents, barefoot and oblivious as he looks over Keith's space posters.

And Keith watches him. Eyes roaming over the angles of his face, softened by moonlight. The soft curve of his lips. The tilt of his nose. The shimmering of glamour beneath his eyes whenever he turns. Lance's eyes, dark as the midnight sky as he looks at Keith. Those beautiful lips curling into a devilish smile even as those eyes soften enough to take Keith's breath away.

And Keith wonders if this is all just a dream.

Lance crawls into the bed, and Kosmo barely stirs. They settle under the blankets, bodies curled as they face each other. Keith is too tired to look away, even as his eyelids droop, and Lance doesn't seem inclined to either.

He's exhausted, and sleep tugs at his mind, but curiosity is an impulse he can't ignore. "Why were you two arguing?" He asks, words slurred as his face presses into the pillow.

Lance's smile is small and wry, edges of it barely catching in the moonlight. "We weren't... arguing."

"You can't lie," Keith mumbles, eyes narrowing.

Lance chuckles, curling a little more, until their knees are touching. Keith doesn't pull away. "I'm not lying. We weren't arguing in the traditional sense. We just... have different opinions on what to do."

Keith hums his understanding, eyes drooping further as he blinks. "What was the disagreement about then? Not the court business," he adds when Lance's nose wrinkles. "I know you won't tell me that. But... you and Shiro. What did you disagree about?"

Lance's eyes search Keith's face for a moment before looking down at the space between them. Keith's hand rest there. Innocent and unassuming. Fingers curled at rest against the sheets. Lance lays his hand next to Keith's. Just a hair's width apart. "Shiro thinks I should stop seeing you."

Keith's eyes snap open, air leaving his lungs in a rush. "What?" Lance doesn't look happy about it, but he's still smiling. He's still staring at their hands, the gap between them so minuscule but feeling so massive. Keith bridges it, reaching out and laying his hand overtop Lance's, curling their fingers together as he squeezes. "Why?"

Lance's gaze flickers back to his. "To protect you." He adjusts his hand beneath Keith's, so they're resting palm to palm. "He's worried the winter fey will notice you— that _anyone_ will notice you— because I'm around you."

It's a reasonable fear. One that Keith can't deny that he's briefly considered, too. He doesn't want fey to notice him, but Lance is a high fey of the summer court. It won't be long until someone takes notice.

But the alternative... not having Lance in his life. It twists his gut painfully. Sharp pain radiating throughout his chest. That hollow deep inside him aches at the thought. Bone deep and pulsing. He curls a little more, pushing his knees into Lance's, curling in on the ache in his chest.

He doesn't look away from Lance, voice low and full of a desperation that he knows he'd be ashamed of in the light of day as he says, "Promise me you won't leave."

Surprise flits across Lance's face, leaving his expression blank in its wake. Then he smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes. "Why? Grown fond of me?"

Keith's fingers tighten in Lance's. Eyes narrowing as he repeats, sharper and harder, voice low and brimming with fire. " _Promise me_."

He doesn't know why he's so persistent. Doesn't know why he _needs_ this. Doesn't know why the fear of losing Lance is making it hard to breathe. Body tight and head swirling.

Whatever he's feeling, Lance sees it. His smile dims but grow fonder because of it. "I promise.”

Keith drags in a breath, feeling the relief surging through his system like a balm. As quickly as that storm had come, it's gone, leaving him sinking into the sheets. He sighs, letting his eyes close as sleep once more begins to tug at him. "Good," he mumbles, hand squeezing once more before going lax. "You can't break an oath."

"I know," Lance says, voice barely above a whisper.

As the silence stretches, Keith gives into the temptation of darkness. Letting his mind drift down— down— down. He's on the cusp of unconsciousness when he hears Lance's voice again. When he feels the press of something soft to his knuckles.

_I'm bound by so many oaths, but I would break them all for you._

He doesn't know if it's a dream.

* * *

When he wakes the next morning, Lance is gone. The space where he had been has already gone cold, but Keith's hand still feels warm.

There's a forget-me-not on his nightstand, perfect and pristine, beauty crystalized in the morning light.

* * *

"Is, uh... is he okay?" Hunk asks, though whether he's actually trying to whisper or not, Keith can't tell.

"He's fine," Pidge says, off-handed and distracted. "He's just moping."

"'M not moping," he mutters. He lays on the couch, feet kicked up and crossed on the arm of it, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the ceiling.

"You are."

"No, I'm not."

"Can you cool it with the glaring? I think I can smell my ceiling smoking."

Keith blinks, worry flaring through him for a moment before he realizes she's joking. He rolls his head to the side, turning his narrowed gaze on her, lips scrunched up into a frown. "I don't have heat ray vision, Pidge."

She just shrugs as she continues to fiddle with the devices in front of her. "Have you tried?"

"No—"

"Then maybe you do. You have fire power, so..."

"It doesn't work like that."

"Mmm, I still think you should try it sometime. But not on my ceiling."

Keith huffs, rolling his head to stare upwards once more. It's not that he's _moping_. He's just bored. Pidge and Matt have a small little duplex home just outside of town. It's an old building, with vines and ivy that crawls all around the worn bricks and a yard that's near untamable. That's Pidge's fault, and it drives their landlord crazy that he can't seem to control the growth.

Their backyard houses a flourishing garden that's chaotic and wild. Pidge says there's a method to her madness, and Keith wouldn't believe it if he hasn't personally seen her traverse it. It's no where near the perfect organization as her mom's garden, but it works for her.

The inside of their house is even worse. Potted plants fill every nook and cranny, unkept and sprawling greenery that crawls along the walls and drapes over furniture. Every other possible surface is covered with some sort of book, gadget, or spare parts. Between Pidge and Matt, their finished and unfinished inventions alike decorate their home in disarray. Combined with the plants, it makes their space feel like a post apocalyptic home, technology abandoned by people and left to the devices of nature.

He has no idea how the two of them manage to find anything, but they never seem to have any trouble with it.

Pidge and Hunk sit in the little available space on the living room floor. Things pile up around them, though Keith isn't sure if they're all necessary or just things she's pushed aside. They fiddle with some things between them, but Keith hasn't been paying much attention. A laptop. A tablet. Some mini robot thing.

Keith had been a little surprised to find that Hunk is good with human technology, but his surprise is short lived. In the time he's known Hunk, he's learned the fey is extremely smart and incredibly adaptable. Not to mention pretty established in the mortal world. He's the complete opposite of Lance, who keeps finding out new discoveries about human technology that leave him excited and awed with childlike wonder.

"Is this because Lance couldn't come?" Hunk asks.

"No," Keith says a little too quickly and a little too sharply. Pidge snorts a short laugh, and Keith's frown deepens. He refuses to look at them, arms tightening over his chest, like that might somehow hide what he's feeling.

Disappointment, mostly. He hates that he feels it, but it's definitely there.

Pidge had invited Hunk, Shay, and Lance over to hang out. Keith had been a little hesitant about the whole thing. _It's called making friends, Keith_ , Pidge had said. He wanted to counter with the fact that they know better than to make friends with fey, but...

But he's already crossed that line with Lance. And he can’t deny that he was looking forward to seeing him.

But Lance had cancelled at the last minute, and Shay had to stay and work at the cafe, so only Hunk came. While he likes Hunk fine enough, he's... he's not _Lance_.

Which isn't fair to Hunk, and Keith should really get his head out of his ass and stop moping— because yes, he's moping, alright, though he hates to admit it— because Hunk is a good guy, despite being a fey. Both Shiro and Lance vouch for him, and Keith trusts them both inexplicably.

Not to mention he's Lance's best friend, so...

Why does it always come back to Lance?

"Sorry, buddy," Hunk says without looking up from his laptop. His eyes are flicking back and forth across the screen, brows furrowed in concentration. "He really wanted to come, and I really wanted to watch him try Mario Kart for the first time. But you know how courts are."

Keith turns his head to look at Hunk, eyes narrowing. "No, actually, I don't."

Hunk blinks, pulling out of his trance for a moment. "Oh... right." He glances at Keith before giving him a sheepish smile, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "Well, they're pretty demanding. If they want your attention, they want it, and you kinda gotta respond immediately. Lance doesn't really have much of choice."

There's that beast of curiosity again, awakening and shifting beneath his skin. Keith uncrosses his arms, pushing himself up onto his elbows to get a better look at Hunk. "But you do?"

Hunk laughs, suddenly and bubbling. He shakes his head, waving off the question as he looks back to his laptop, grin still on his lips as he says, "Yeah, no. If they actually called on me, I would probably have to respond, but like... they don't? I'm just a gentleman of the court. I mean, I was. Technically, I guess I still am? But I haven't lived in court for _years_. Shay's a wild fey, and ever since I moved out here to be with her, I think the court pretty much thinks of me as wild, too. Or domesticated. Both, probably. If there was a super big need for reinforcements, or if the courts went to war again, they'd probably call me back, but that probably won't happen because the courts have been at a stalemate for years now."

"Aren't the courts _always_ supposed to be at a stalemate?" Pidge asks.

"Why do they call on Lance then?" Keith tacts on.

Hunk blinks, head snapping up. As he looks between the two of them, eyes wide, he slowly straightens. "I, uh... probably shouldn't be telling you guys this stuff."

But Pidge is already leaning forward, eyes locked and fixed, and Keith is slowly sitting up, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Too late," Pidge says. "You might as well spill now."

"I _really_ shouldn't be telling you about court stuff," Hunk stresses, eyes pleading.

Pidge doesn't budge. "Where's the harm in it? We already know about fey and the courts. We're not gonna go around telling anyone, and we're trusted by Shiro and Lance, who _you_ trust, right?"

Hunk shifts, eyes darting between them. "I mean, yeah..."

"Then where's the harm in it?" Pidge's grin is sharp and toothy as she adjusts her glasses. Her stare is hard and unblinking. Sometimes Keith finds it hard to believe she has no fey blood herself.

"I dunno..."

"If you answer one question from each of us, I'll tell you what I am."

Hunk's eyes narrow. "You're just a human."

Pidge leans forward, chin tipping downward. "Am I?"

Hunk frowns, staring Pidge down, but Keith can see his curiosity getting the better of him. Finally, he sighs, shoulders slumping. "Fine. One answer, and you tell me what you are."

" _Deal_ ," Pidge says a little too eagerly.

Hunk lifts a finger, eyes sliding to Keith. " _But_ that's only for Pidge. I want something from you, too, if you want an answer to your question." Hunk is grinning now, eyes sharp, and Keith feels himself squirming under the weight of that gaze. Hunk's eyes shift, shades of gold flashing through the fractals of brown. Hunk is powerful enough that his glamour isn't always obvious, but right now, Keith can't ignore the shimmer that coats his skin. Reminding him _exactly_ what he is. And reminding Keith that he's definitely _not_ supposed to make deals with fey.

But... it's just Hunk. And a small deal for answers won't do much harm, right?

He wants to say no, but he also wants to know more about Lance.

He sighs. "What'd you want?"

Hunk's eyes light up, and his grin goes from sharp and predatory to earnest excitement in a matter of moments. "I want to see your blade," he says quickly. "Lance talks about it all the time, but I've never seen magic like that. Will you show me?"

That's not as bad as it could be. He swallows past the lump of trepidation lodged in his throat and forces out a curt, "Deal."

"Okay, sweet." Hunk crosses his legs, hands on his ankles as he stands up straight, practically rocking back and forth as he looks between the two of them. "Who's first?"

"Me!" Pidge throws a hand into the air. "Aren't the courts always supposed to be at a stalemate? Why did you make it sound like that's a new thing?"

Hunk lets out a long breath, rocking stopping as he slumps. "Okay, um... _yes_ , we're supposed to be at a stalemate, I guess? But we haven't been for like... a long time. Probably nearly a millennia by now? When the king of the winter court got the throne, there was a prophecy that he would be the most powerful king fey kind has ever known, _but_ a mixed blood would balance the courts once more and ruin all that he's built. So... he kinda went a little power mad, but also went on a witch hunt for mixed bloods, which is why the winter court is so cruel to ironbloods." He glances sidelong at Keith, coughing lightly as he offers a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, Keith."

Keith just shakes his head, waving off Hunk's concerns. He's known his whole life that people like him are hunted. It's not anything new. "Don't worry about it."

"But there's a stalemate now?" Pidge prompts, and Hunk nods.

"Yeah. Without their knight, the winter court can't assassinate anyone from the summer court. So they're pretty much at a stand still."

"What happened to their knight?"

Hunk shakes his head, pointing a finger at Pidge. "Nope. I answered your question. Now you tell me what you are."

Pidge scowls, and for a moment, Keith thinks she's going to keep pressing with questions. But despite her impatience, she knows better than trying to press on a fey when a deal had been struck. Instead, she sighs, gesturing to the room around them. "I'm a druid."

Hunk's eyes widen as he looks around, taking in all the plants crawling across the walls and every surface with newfound insight. "You know... that makes a lot of sense."

Pidge grins, shrugging lightly. "Yeah. You know it is. Ancestors get blessed by dryads, and then the affinity for plants kinda sticks with us for generations."

"So Matt, too?"

"Nah, he sucks with plants. He got a bit of the elemental magic from dad's side of the family. I think they were blessed by a sylph. Or maybe one of my ancestors _was_ a sylph? I don't remember."

"Why does the court call on Lance so much?" Keith asks, cutting into the conversation, wincing as it comes out a little too sharply.

Hunk hums, lips pursed as his expression curls into something almost thoughtful, with a pinch of something sour. "He's a high lord of the court, _and_ he's one of Allura's suitors. Her favorite, really. So he's got a lot of power and a lot of responsibility. But it's not really responsibility as much as it's just all the manipulative court fey wanting to see how far they can push him and how much they can control him." Hunk's eyes narrow as he frowns, gaze distant. "A lot of them don't approve of him, so they like to play with him. See if they can push him until he cracks. He does a good job fending them off and setting boundaries, but he still has to respond when the court makes Allura call on him."

Keith feels dizzy, head swimming. His heart rate is rapid, but it feels distant. Removed from himself. There's a fleeting feeling of numbness washing over his limbs. "Who's Allura?" He hears himself say, but his voice sounds strange to his own ears.

Hunk looks at him then, concern flickering over his features. "Oh, uh... has Lance not told you about that?" Keith shakes his head, and Hunk looks away, scratching the back of his neck. "Right, um... Allura is the princess of the summer court. Heir to the throne."

"Oh..."

His chest tightens, and he's not quite sure he remembers how to breathe. Something hot and sour twists in his gut, sickening and searing him from the inside out. Lance is... a suitor of a fey princess. Her favorite. He's courting a princess—

"So about your blade..." Hunk says so carefully that Keith thinks he might be trying to distract him on purpose.

It works. Keith clings to it in an attempt to ground himself and keep himself from spiraling away. He takes that heat churning in his gut and redirects it, fueling it to heat in his veins, feeling it surge through his chest and down his arm. His skin prickles, the sharp pain of a thousand pins shifting beneath the flesh of his arm. The symbol on his forearm begins to glow faintly, pulsing with his heart beat.

His palm stings, sharp and hot. He grits his teeth against the familiar pain as his dagger pushes from his hand, blood boiling and roiling, skin crawling. His dagger pushes from his palm, and Keith's fingers wrap around its handle, holding it out for Hunk to see.

His eyes are wide, bugging out of their sockets as he leans forward, mouth agape. "Whoa..."

"Pretty cool, right?" Pidge says, grinning from ear to ear as she sits cross legged, arms crossed over her chest proudly.

"Yeah," Hunk breathes. "Blood magic is a winter court thing, so we don't usually get to see it. I've never seen a Marmora blade."

That snaps Keith out of his thoughts, and the surprise severs his tremulous hold on his magic far too abruptly.

His dagger glows, energy white hot as it's sucked back into his palm, arm on fire as it settles back into his flesh and blood. He hisses, wincing as he puts a hand to his arm, trying to soothe the burn. Still, he looks to Hunk. "A what?"

Hunk's mouth snaps shut, blinking as he turns back to his laptop. "Nothing."

"Hunk—"

"Don't worry about it."

"What's a Marmora—"

"So Pidge, about human magic," he says, loudly and abruptly.

Pidge scoffs. "How many times do I have to tell you? Technology isn't human magic."

"But it _is_."

"It's science!"

"Which is just magic with another name!"

The argument continues, and Pidge gets too riled up to let Keith get a word in edgewise. He glares at Hunk, knowing that it was on purpose. The fey purposefully avoids his gaze, but Keith can see him sweating.

He sinks back into the couch, arms crossed over his chest as he sulks. He goes back to glaring at the ceiling.

He wonders what Marmora means.

He wonders what Lance is doing.

He wonders what Allura is like.

* * *

He jerks awake as his phone vibrates, buzzing loudly through his mattress. Keith groans, squeezing his eyes tight and wishing that it would stop. It takes him a moment to realize that it's not a dream, and it's definitely someone calling him. He debates ignoring it, but ultimately decides he shouldn't. No one calls him this late. If someone is, then it might be an emergency.

So he flails an arm out, blindly patting around beneath his pillows until he finds his phone. Yanking it free of the charger, he swipes open the call and puts it to his ear without looking at the caller id.

"Hello?" He grumbles, voice slurred with sleep.

" _Keith!"_

He winces at the volume, but it's not quite as startling as the voice itself. "Lance?" He asks, rubbing his eyes as he rolls onto his side.

_"That's my name. Don't wear it out."_

"Not your whole name," Keith mumbles, far too tired to care that he's being snarky with a fey.

Thankfully, Lance just laughs. It sounds like silver bells in a summer breeze, drifting straight through him and lifting a heavy weight that's been pressing in on his chest in Lance's absence. He feels himself smile.

God, he's so fucked.

_"True, but you're gonna have to work harder than that to get my full name."_

"Why're you calling me at—" He pulls his phone away from his ear for a moment, squinting against the light of his screen to read the time. "Fuck, Lance, it's three in the morning."

 _"Is it? I didn't notice,_ ” he hums, actually sounding thoughtful.

"Your phone tells you the time when you turn it on," Keith says dryly, eyes already closed.

_"Yeah, well... I wasn't paying attention, okay? Time is a weird human construct anyway. You're so obsessed with it."_

"Why're you calling me in the middle of the night?"

 _"I just managed to get away from the faerie realm, and I—"_ He cuts himself off, and a long pause follows.

Keith checks his phone, just to make sure Lance hadn't hung up. "Lance?"

 _"I guess I just wanted to talk to you,"_ he says softly, voice gentle in the night. Keith feels his heart flutter, at the mercy of the wings of butterflies. _"I didn't realize how late it was."_

Keith sighs, because how is he supposed to stay mad when he says things like that? "It's okay," he grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he yawns, pulling his blankets up higher as he curls into a ball. Kosmo shifts on the bed behind him. "Court things taken care of?"

 _"For now..."_ His voice is flat, an edge of bitterness in the vague answer. _"Anyway, I wanted to apologize for having to cancel plans with you and Pidge— um... how long ago was that?"_

"Five days."

A soft curse. _"It's been five days?"_

"Yeah. You didn't notice?"

 _"Time is weird in the faerie realm,"_ he says vaguely. _"Harder to keep track of._."

"It's okay," he hums, words slurred and mumbled as exhaustion hooks its claws into him. "You can just make it up to me later."

 _"Oh?"_ How he can sound so intrigued, curious, surprised, and coy all in one syllable, Keith will never know. But it sends a thrill shivering down his spine, which spreads to goosebumps across his skin as Lance's voice drops into a low purr. _"Just you? Not Pidge?"_

And because sleep must have addled his brain, Keith mumbles, "She doesn't miss you like I do."

Lance hums, and Keith's toes curl. _"I should call you in the middle of the night more often. You're far more honest."_

"Shut up."

_"Have dinner with me tomorrow."_

"What?"

_"Dinner. With me. Tomorrow. At Hunk's restaurant. Let me make it up to you."_

He blames it on the fact that he's tired. He blames it on the fact that endorphins from his dreams are still coursing through his system. He blames it on the fact that Lance's voice is low and velvety in his ear, lilting and coy, making his heart flutter and heat pool in his gut. Making his fingers curl into his sheets as he buries his face and mumbles a quiet. "Okay."

_"See you tomorrow, Keith."_

The way Lance says his name, all low and rumbling, with the tilt of a smile and a hint of breathless anticipation, haunts Keith long after they hang up. Echoing in his mind as he tries and fails to find sleep once more.

* * *

"So what're you going to wear for your date?" Pidge asks from where she's lying on his floor, tapping away at the phone she holds over her head.

"It's not a date." He's sitting on his bed, leaning against the pillows piled on the headboard. Kosmo curls up next to him, and he busies himself running his fingers through his fur while staring at the empty canvas on his iPad.

The plan was to work on some tattoo designs while he waited for the day to pass, hoping it would distract him from dinner with Lance.

The plan is failing spectacularly.

Especially when Pidge is lying on his floor reminding him of exactly what he's trying not to think about.

"Sounds like a date."

"Not a date."

She hums, skeptical as she says, "Dinner at a fancy restaurant. Sounds like a date."

"We go have dinner all the time. So do me and Shiro. Those aren't dates."

"No, but you don't have a big gay crush on us."

"I don't have one on Lance either."

She snorts, nearly choking on the laugh that bubbles up her throat to burst past her lips. "Yeah, _sure_ , keep telling yourself that."

He glares down at her. "He's _fey_."

"And you're half fey. I don't see the problem."

"The problem is it's not gonna happen."

"Oh, so the problem is you can't date him—" She yelps as he throws a pillow at her, knocking the phone out of her hands and causing it to fall on her face. " _Ow_." She rubs her nose, glaring as she proper herself up on an elbow to throw the pillow back. Keith catches it easily. "That hurt."

"You deserved it," he smirks.

She rolls her eyes and lies back down, flopping her arms over her head in her usual boredom pose, phone sitting on her chest. "So what're you gonna wear?"

"I don't know." He looks back down at his iPad, sketching a few lines just to seem busy, hoping that something will come to him.

"Gonna wear something fancy?"

He doesn't look up, but he lifts an eyebrow. "Why would I do that?"

"Uh, because one, it's a date. And two, because Lance is a high fey in a royal court and you wanna impress him."

Keith scoffs. "One, it's not a date. Two, Lance never wears anything fancy." He feels the small curve of his smile, and he can't quite beat it back down. Despite Lance's ability to change his glamour to wear anything he wants, his clothes are always casual. With that average oversized jacket.

"Mhm, do I need to point out that you're smiling?"

He scowls. "Shut up."

"Anyway, I definitely think you should wear something nice. If only because Hunk's restaurant is a nice one."

"I don't have anything nice."

"Lies. You've dressed nice when I dragged you to my parents' fancy parties."

He frowns. She has a point. He _does_ have some clothes that could be considered _nice_. Maybe if he paired a nice top with a pair of jeans, he could look good without going overboard.

Not that it matters.

Because it's definitely not a date.

Lance is courting a fey princess, and this dinner is just... friends.

"Hey, what's this?"

He turns, surprised when he can't see Pidge anymore. He leans over the edge of the bed to find her wedged half under it. "What is what?"

" _This_ ," she says as he withdraws, coughing and wincing as she waves a hand in the air. "Dude, clean under your bed. It's gross down there."

But his eyes are on the box in her lap. It's small and metal, with a simple clasp to keep it shut. Something clenches in his chest. Something buried far too deep for him to uncover. "I haven't seen that in forever," he says softly, already reaching for it.

Pidge hands it over, climbing up to sit on the edge of the bed as he sets his iPad aside, pulling the box into his lap. "I thought fey didn't like metal."

Keith feels the corner of his lips quirk. "They don't. That's why I have this.” He runs his fingers along the edges of it. His skin warms where there's contact, but it doesn't burn. Not like it would if he were fey. He knows from experience that if it touches it for too long, his skin will get irritated. But a rash is the worst he's ever gotten from iron. "I have a few boxes like this around my room. There are some larger ones in the attic."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "To keep fey out. They can't touch them, so anything we want to make sure stays safe goes into metal boxes." His smirk curls a little wider. "And I used to put stuff in them that I didn't want Shiro to find."

"Oh, I bet he loved that," Pidge says with a laugh. "What'd you put in them? Your diary? Porno magazines?"

He huffs a short laugh. "Detention letters from school. Notes and drawings. Anything that I had stolen, no matter how small. Even flowers from other people's gardens."

"Was he that nosey?"

Keith shrugs. "No, I just think I wanted to spite him in my rebellious years."

"You say that like you're not rebellious now," Pidge says with a shit eating grin, leaning in to waggle her eyebrows as she says, "Mr. Dating-a-Fey." Keith just scowls at her and she chuckles. "So what's in this one?"

His brow furrows, eyes dropping back to the box. "Honestly, I don't remember." He flips the latch, carefully pulling back the lid. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until it comes out of him in a rush.

Nothing in the box is extraordinary, and yet the nostalgia rushes over him like a tidal wave, flooding through him and dragging him out to sea.

An old dream journal. A gameboy color. A pile of faded and poorly taken polaroids. A stuffed red lion. A few folded pieces of paper.

None of it is particularly worthwhile, but something in his chest squeezes all the same. The strange hollow pit in his chest. The dark knot of— of _something_ he's never been able to name. A hollowness. An emptiness. A loneliness. It _aches_. It aches so much he's finding it hard to breathe. Mind swirling and swimming. Emotions surging through him, too quick and too muted for him to name, slipping through his fingers and turning to smoke the moment he tries to grasp them.

"What is all this stuff?"

"I don't know," he mumbles, swallowing past the lump forming in his throat. "Just stuff from when I was a kid, I guess."

But he knows. He remembers. Sort of. It was a weird time in his life. One full of change and far too much. So much that he felt constantly overwhelmed, feeling periods of highs and lows. Before he finally settled. Before everything settled and he found a new normal.

It was just after Shiro officially adopted him, becoming his legal guardian. They had moved far away from where Keith had spent years hopping the foster care system. Far from— from there. From whatever happened there. It _hurts_ to think that far. Like needles in his mind and heart on fire— but it doesn't matter. Because Shiro saved him. Shiro took him away from that pain. And they started a new life.

But the transition hadn't been easy. It had been... a lot. Keith doesn't remember most of it. It blurs in his memory. Time lapsing strangely as he let his emotions run their course and settled into his new life. All he remembers for sure is that he was a handful for Shiro, and that Shiro met him with patience and care at every turn.

He ran away a few times.

He would have nightmares and lash out at Shiro.

He broke things. He fought. He said hurtful things.

It took him a while to trust the man— the _fey_.

Shiro never gave up on him, and Keith can never repay him for that.

But this box... these things... they're from that time. Things that made Keith feel... _too much_. Things he had to lock away. Things... he feared Shiro would get rid of? So he hid them. From Shiro. From himself. He doesn't know why.

He shifts, the box moving on his lap, contents shifting— and something catches his eye. Sparkling in the light. He reaches into the box and pulls out a piece of jewelry.

It takes him a moment to realize it's an ear-cuff. Gold woven into a floral, vine-like design, meant to crawl beautifully around the shell of his ear. Where a flower blooms at the center, there's a purple gemstone.

Something inside him shifts. His heartbeat stutters. His chest aches.

"What is it?" Pidge asks, leaning in to see it gleam in the light.

"I don't know," he whispers, but he already knows he's going to wear it.

* * *

It doesn't matter how many times Keith tells himself that it's not a date because the fact remains that it _feels_ like one.

The nerves are alive under his skin, sparking and firing on all cylinders, making his flesh feel tingly and numb, flashing hot and cold in turns. His arms feel too stiff, but his legs feel like jelly. His stomach is in a constant state of turmoil, churning and twisting, and he's not sure how he's supposed to eat like this.

His chest feels tight. Skin stretched and taut over his ribs. He feels the pulse of each heartbeat like a wave of heat through his veins, pounding and cracking against his sternum. He's pretty sure his heartbeat is erratic and not at all healthy, skipping beats and stumbling over itself, making him feel dizzy.

He's not quite sure how he's breathing, but he hasn't passed out yet, so that's a good sign.

Pidge had left his house a few hours before he had to leave, and Keith had taken a long shower to try to clear his head. It hadn't worked. He'd then spent far too long getting ready, fiddling with his hair until he determined that it wasn't going to cooperate anyway. He'd gotten dressed way too early and ended up pacing the house for thirty minutes before he left. Kosmo had watched him from the couch, silent but eyes tracking him as he wore a groove into the carpet.

He's just glad Shiro hadn't been home to witness it.

It may not be a date, but it sure as hell _feels_ like first date jitters.

As he pulls into the parking lot of Hunk's restaurant, he feels those nerves spike. Anticipation coils hot and tight in his chest, and after he turns his bike off, he has to sit there for a moment, helmet in his hands, trying to remember how to breathe. It's only when he feels eyes on him that he decides he's probably sat there long enough.

He shoves his helmet in the compartment and locks his bike up, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he makes his way quickly across the parking lot. He keeps his head down, eyes darting around beneath the shield of his fringe. And as he steps through the doors, he feels a new sort of panic spike in his chest, sending waves of ice through his veins.

There are fey _everywhere_. Working the front desk. Moving around the room as waiters and waitresses. Sitting at the tables. Keith freezes just inside the doorway, eyes darting around, sweeping across the room as he takes in all the shimmering glamours and the ghostly features they barely hide.

Fey.

 _So many_ fey.

There are humans, too. Sitting with and amongst all the speckles of glamour. He knows that Hunk's restaurant is open to both human and fey patrons, just like Shay's Cafe. He just wonders if _they_ know. The humans. Are they here as prey? Are they here because they passed by and decided to give the place a chance? Are they here because they, like him, have a not-date with a charming fey lord—

Oh god, he's dizzy again.

"Keith!"

His head snaps up, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Hunk standing with the hostess behind the front desk. Good, familiar Hunk. With his wide, warm, welcoming smile that instantly puts Keith more at ease, settling his blazing nerves to mere embers.

He steps around the desk, arms wide as he approaches Keith and pulls him into a hug. "Welcome, man! This is your first time, right?"

Keith awkwardly returns the hug, taking a moment to lift his too-stiff arms. "Uh, yeah. I've never been here before."

Hunk laughs warmly, pulling away from the hug but wrapping an arm around Keith's shoulders as he steps beside him, gesturing to the room. "Well, this is it! What'd you think?"

"It's... nice," he says, surprised that he means it. When he moves past the room full of fey dressed in silvery glamour, he can actually appreciate the place. It's wide and open, dressed in rich, earthy colors. Pillars fill the room, elaborately carved and imbedded with crystal lanterns. Tables fill the center space, booths pressed into the walls. The ceiling is domed and high, covered in paintings. "Really nice."

"Thanks, man," Hunk says with a grin, free hand on his hip as he looks around. "I put a lot of work into this place, and I'm glad it paid off."

"So, uh... where's Lance?" He asks, because despite looking over the room several times, he hasn't seen him.

"Oh, he's in the back. Come on, I'll take you to your table."

"In the back?"

"Yeah, we made sure to reserve a private booth for you guys." He accents the sentence with a wink before pulling away, but offers no further explanation.

Keith gapes at his retreating back, feeling his heart skip and stutter through its beats again. _Not a date. Not a date. Not a date._

He hurries after Hunk, trying to mold himself casually into his shadow to avoid the curious eyes of the fey patrons as they pass. Hunk leads him through a door and down a hall that's lined with doors on both sides. "These are our private booths," he says, gesturing to the doors. "They're magically soundproof, and only those who reserved the room and my staff can open the doors."

"That's... pragmatic."

Hunk nods, a small smile on his face. Whimsical and proud. "Yeah, cause see, the whole point of this place is to bring people together. Fey from different courts. Court fey and wild fey. Even fey and humans. Food makes people happy. _Good_ food makes them happier. More amiable. Makes good memories. I wanted to have a place where I could bring people together— _all_ people— with food as my weapon. We offer private booths so people can eat together without their glamours, but without having to show everyone. Building trust, you know?"

"That's..." Really dangerous. Goes against the natural order of things. Actually... a really good and considerate idea. He's not sure if he agrees or not, and the idea of the humans and fey mingling out in the main room still has his stomach twisting with the discomfort of the wariness he's been forced to bear for his entire life, but— he can't deny that he wouldn't mind if things changed. Hunk paints a really nice picture of acceptance and camaraderie, and though it's unrealistic, Keith... kind of likes it. "Actually really wholesome, Hunk."

His grin widens. "Yeah? I think so, too." He stops in front of a door, turning to face Keith as he gestures to it. "It's also useful in situations like this where Lance wants to take you out, but doesn't want to risk anyone seeing you with him. Cause.. you know... keeping your identity low-key and everything."

 _Taking you out..._.

_Not a date._

"He's in there," Hunk says when Keith doesn't move. When Keith glances at him, he winks again, and Keith feels heat surge through his veins to the back of his neck, threatening to spread out onto his face. "Good luck."

And with that Hunk turns and leaves, walking back down the hallway and leaving Keith standing outside the door. He takes a deep breath, trying and failing to settle his nerves before reaching for the door handle. The worn wood is smooth beneath his palm, and the door opens easily enough.

The room is small, yet spacious. Decorated much the same as the main room, but on a smaller scale. A singular table for two sits in the center, and Lance in one of the chairs.

"Keith," His head snaps up as Keith enters, and he breathes his name like a prayer, a small relieved smile spreading across his lips. Eyes lighting up with far too much honesty.

It does nothing to calm Keith's racing heart.

When he had been getting dressed, Keith had worried that he might have been dressing _too_ nice. He has his favorite pair of black skinny jeans that he knows cup his ass and cling to his legs just right, boots that he refuses to admit he polished, and the dark maroon button down that fits him perfectly across the chest. Overtop he wears his black leather jacket and his usual gloves for comfort.

He had worried that maybe he would look like he was trying too hard. But as Lance slides out of his chair and moves around the table, he realizes he had nothing to worry about.

Because Lance.. Lance is _something_.

Gone are the loose and casual clothes that he's used to seeing him in. Fitted slacks that cling to his legs in the best ways. A vest that overlaps instead of meeting in the center, instead buttoning closer to the side. Embroidered and embellished in beautiful decorative swirls of dark blue and a paler azure, white and gold. Fitted to emphasize his broad shoulders and trim waist. Overtop a black button-up. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off forearms that have Keith's mouth feeling dry. A few pieces of jewelry decorate his slim wrists and dangle from his ears, all gold.

His hair is slicked back, and his eyes are shining, blues shifting and sparkling like rotating gemstones. His smile lifts his cheeks, where the shine of his glamour is thickest. The subtleties of the rest of his glamour shimmers as he moves in the dim lighting.

Keith is far too busy trying to remember how to breathe that he's not prepared for the moment Lance wraps him up in a hug. "You made it," Lance says, voice a low sigh that tickles Keith's neck and sends shivers down his spine.

He finally gets his body to cooperate, wrapping his arms stiffly around Lance's waist and marveling at how he feels. "Of course, I did. I said I would, didn't I?"

Lance pulls back then, but doesn't quite let him go. His smile has shifted to something softer. "Yes, but you can break oaths."

Keith lets his lips tilt into a small smirk of his own. "Doesn't mean I will."

Lance guides him to the table, going so far as to pull his chair out for him with a small bow. Keith snorts a short laugh, rolling his eyes and allowing himself to smile, which only makes Lance smirk, amusement dancing in his eyes.

He's expecting things to be awkward. He's expecting the strained silences and the nerves to buzz beneath his skin, anxious and sickening as each second passes by. He expects his mind to be whirling, overthinking, making everything far more difficult than it has to be. He expects it to be difficult to be with Lance in this setting.

He's pleasantly surprised when it's not.

Being with Lance is surprisingly easy. Though... maybe it's not so surprising at this point. Despite the new atmosphere and the way they're dressed, conversation flows as naturally as it always does. Lance's familiar smile, the mischievous gleam in his eyes, his mannerisms. They put him at ease, settling the crawling anxiety into a soft and gentle buzz. A buzz that's far warmer than the chill of panic. His stomach has settled, but Lance’s laugh still makes it flip. He feels like he can breathe, but when Lance leans forward, chin tilted down to say something in that low, coy voice of his, Keith is still left breathless.

The food is amazing, and while he expected as much from Hunk's cooking, he's still blown away. He had let Lance choose for him. Something flavored and inspired by the faerie realm. And he isn't disappointed. And when they're done, they sit back in their chairs, relaxing and reluctant to leave.

Conversation flows naturally. Bickering comes inherently. Lance pulls him out from behind his walls so easily. Calming his overactive mind and unwavering caution with little more than a laugh and a playful jab, prompting Keith to respond in kind.

He doesn't know how Lance does this to him so easily.

He's stopped questioning it.

He's started to let himself enjoy it. If only for now. If only for this moment.

Music plays softly through speakers mounted on the walls. Soft enough to not be distracting, but loud enough to fill the lulls in conversation. He barely notices it, letting it drift through the room as atmosphere. In fact, he's barely registered it at all until they reach a dip in conversation and Lance says, "Oh! I love this song."

He's out of his seat in a moment, moving around the table to Keith's side with a fluidity akin to water. He bends at the waist, one hand tucked neatly at his lower back, the other extended toward Keith, palm up. His eyes crinkle at the edges, smile small and controlled as he says, "May I have this dance?"

His hand is moving before he can think things through, and the moment his hand is in Lance's, he pulls Keith off his feet. He whirls them around into an open space in the room, taking up Keith's hand delicately in one of his and wrapping the other around his waist, resting it at his lower back, applying just enough pressure for Keith to feel the warmth of his touch as he pushes Keith close to him. Until their bodies are nearly touching.

Nearly, but not quite.

Keith's hand settles on Lance's shoulder, but he doesn't have time to feel awkward before Lance is moving. Guiding them easily through the movements, swaying to the rhythm of the song. And despite the fact that Keith is far from graceful, Lance makes him feel like he's floating on air.

And as he hums softly under his breath, easing Keith through the movements with kind patience, standing tall and proud, holding him closely but respectfully, Keith is reminded of the fact that Lance is a court fey. No matter how casually he usually dresses, and no matter how playful he is, no matter how enraptured he is by human life and how ridiculous he looks when he pouts, he's still a high lord of the summer court.

Keith feels both awed and intimidated all at once, swirling together in a chaotic cocktail that has his heart twisting and his palms sweating beneath his gloves.

"I'm not supposed to dance with fey," he says to break the silence and the tension that's building in his chest. To distract himself from the buzz in his veins and the heat radiating from Lance's body. For as cold as the air feels around Lance, he feels like he's on fire where they touch.

Lance's smirk is small, dancing more in his eyes than on his lips, voice coy as he says, "I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to go on a date with them either."

That catches on Keith's heart, tugging on strings that have been wound tight all day. He can hear his pulse in his ears. Feels the heat at the back of his neck. Feels the warmth flood and pool in his gut, twisting and erupting into a dozen butterflies that flutter around his chest.

"So this is a date," he breathes, not quite trusting his voice. He knows he's staring. Probably gaping.

Lance doesn't seem to mind. His smile curls wider, head tilting a little to the side as he says, voice low and lilting playfully, "If you want it to be."

He does.

The realization sweeps through him on the wings of butterflies. Light and fluttering. Silencing his nerves with a sudden and eerie sense of calm acceptance.

He does.

Unfortunately, the calm doesn't last long. Because there are other things that chase away the peace, crawling from the shadows of his mind to whisper the things he'd rather forget. Like the fact that Lance is a fey. Like the fact that Lance is a _high lord_. Like the fact...

"What about Allura?"

Lance stiffens, their dance pausing for just a moment before the sway continues. It's so subtle and minute that Keith might not have noticed had Lance not been holding him so close. "How do you know about her?" The words are presented casually, but there's an underlying wariness that feels like icebergs in the night.

"Hunk," he says simply.

To which Lance makes a soft scoff, muttering a bitter. "Of course..."

Keith shouldn't push, but he does. He needs to know, if only for his own peace of mind. He needs to know what _this_ is. What this _means_. "He said you're one of her suitors."

"I am." Lance's voice is careful and controlled, but at least he doesn't try to deny it.

"So... you're courting her?" He means it as a statement, but it comes out with enough uncertainty to be a question.

Lance hums, head tilting from side to side as his lips purse, nose scrunching up in a way that shouldn't be adorable, but undeniably is. "I guess, _officially_ , I am." He shrugs. "It's what we tell the courts, anyway. Though... there's an understanding between us that we're not wholly serious about it."

"Why?"

Another shrug. A sad smile. Defeat in his voice as well as resignation. But there's a lightness to it. One of acceptance and vague amusement. "Allura is an old friend, and as... irritating as this arrangement can be sometimes, it benefits us both."

Keith's brows furrow, eyes darting around Lance's face. He's trying to read between the lines, and he thinks he understands, but... he needs to be certain. "So you're...?"

"Just friends," Lance confirms, head tilting as his smile widens just a fraction.

Keith feels his own smirk tug at his lips, small and fragile, daring and echoing the hope he feels blooming in his chest. An ember that dares to glow. "What would she say if she knew you were here?"

Lance's smile curls. His eyes go lidded as he leans in. The hand at Keith's lower back applies more pressure, pushing their chests past that small gap until their bodies are flush. His lips are by Keith's ear, breath hot on his skin. He chuckles, and Keith can feel it vibrate through him. "She'd say that I'm being foolish and reckless." His voice is pitched low, sending shivers down Keith's spine. His back arches, hand slipping up and around until his arm is laid out over Lance's shoulder. "That you're dangerous and I should stay away from you."

He finds it hard to breathe, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. A ragged whisper playing at being coy. "Would she try to stop you?"

Another low chuckle. "It doesn't matter. I wouldn't let her." He lets go of Keith's hand to run his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face and tucking it behind his ear. The hand pauses, fingers delicately running over the golden ear cuff that Keith had forgotten he put on. "What's this?"

"I found it today," he says absently. The smell of salt and sea fills his nose. Of the smoldering embers and smoke on a beach. Of fresh rain on a field of wildflowers. Lance is overwhelming, but he can't bring himself to step away. "Found it in a box under my bed."

"Where'd you get it?" Lance asks, absently trailing a finger along Keith's ear. Smile soft and eyes distant as he stares at it.

Keith shrugs, distracted by the drag of his chest against Lance's as his shoulders rise and fall. "I don't remember. Pidge says it looks like it's of faerie make, so it might've been my mom's."

"Maybe..." Lance hums, tapping the jewel once more before his hand falls, once more scooping up Keith's.

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, swaying to the music that fills the room. He lets his eyes drift closed, leaning into Lance's hold. Lance hums softly, and Keith is lulled by the vibrations he feels through his chest. Their heads press together at the temples, and while it's a shame he can't see Lance's face, he's glad the fey can't see his.

He's afraid his expression might mirror whatever is growing in his chest.

The snap and spark of something deep inside that cold, dark hollow.

The flicker of an ember that glows, dim but steady in the darkness.

The songs Lance sings. The sound of his voice as he hums them. He's positive that he's never heard it before. Fey music. And yet it tugs on a thin, fragile thread. One that stretches deep into the recesses of his mind. Plucked and reverberating with a sense of nostalgia that dissipates like smoke when he tries to cling to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
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> 
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	4. Never Insult Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fey are dangerous. It's a truth and a warning that Keith has known his whole life. His experiences with Lance don't change that. They don't change the fact that his life, and those he cares about, are always in danger.
> 
> But Lance... feels different. Feels familiar. Feels _safe_.
> 
> And Keith can't help but act on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! I'm glad you're all enjoying the ride so far. I love seeing your theories and excitement in the comments. Many of you are close enough that I know I'm doing a good job leading you, but off base enough that I know things are still mysterious. It's what I was hoping for, and I'm glad it's working ;)
> 
> Happy reading!

For a long time, the subway has felt like a safe haven.

Subway stations are a hellscape of fey with ill intentions, feeling stifling and crowded and dangerous. But the trains themselves feel safe. Encasing him in metal. Keeping out all those who might wish him harm.

As he stands off to the side, one hand gripping the rail above, eyes locked on the dark windows as the concrete tunnel rushes past, he feels safe.

The train car is crowded with people. It smells of piss, smoke, and far too strongly of someone's perfume, but he feels safe.

Strangers crammed together, train rattling on the rails, swaying precariously as they rocket down the line with no control over what happens, but he feels safe.

It's the one time he never has to worry about fey. The one time he allows himself to relax. To let his mind drift without having to be aware of his surroundings. Because while people can be dangerous, they're nothing compared to what lurks just out of sight.

Still, despite the fact that the subway has always been a safe moment of respite, he finds himself restlessly eager to reach his destination.

There's a hot bubble of anticipation that fills his chest, pressing against his ribs and suffocating his heart. It's a tingle of nerves beneath his skin. A prickle of excitement that nearly feels like magic. It's a strange new sensation to be this eager to leave the safety of the train, but the moment the station starts to whip past the windows, Keith is already moving to the doors.

He's the first one off as they slide open, feet hitting the concrete hard as he pushes through the crowd.

He's well aware of the glamours that shimmer throughout the station. He sees them out of habit, gaze catching on them as his eyes sweep the area. Thick glamours. Shining bright beneath the flickering yellow lights. Glamours that disguise horns and hoofed feet, claws and muzzles. Glamour that disguises the creeping height and turns rugged voices into something sugary sweet. They're not high fey. Bottom feeders. Living in the ironside and preying off humans in a concrete cage.

But even the prickle of caution and the creeping edge of wariness can't sour the anticipation that builds hot in his chest.

He maneuvers through the crowd, weaving a path that keeps him away from the shimmering fey. He hears the beat of Rolo's drum long before he sees them, wall of people thick and entranced around their busking set up at the back of the station. Eyes glazed and heads bobbing, faint smiles on their lips. He wonders how many of these people miss their trains.

Keith pauses as he passes, squatting down in front of them, to pull out his wallet and slip a ten into their glass jar. Beezer is already watching him, tail thumping against the ground and nose nudging Keith's hand long before he reveals the treat. "Hey, buddy," he says softly, rubbing his fingers through his fur and scratching behind his ears.

"That court fey is waiting for you again."

The voice is soft, a low murmur that's nearly buried under the beat of Rolo's hands on his box drum. Something only he can hear. Keith glances up to find Nyma watching him. She sits next to Beezer, swaying to the rhythm. Her eyes are lidded and her smile light and lazy, but there's a sharpness to her gaze.

Keith's movements still, breath caught in his lungs as he whispers, "Which one?"

Nyma hums, and it sounds lyrical and lilting, a fraction of a melody she longs to sing. "The pretty one. Blue eyes. Marks on his cheeks."

Keith lets out a long breath, feeling a smile threaten the corners of his lips. "Lance."

Another thoughtful hum. Another fraction of a melody. "He has a name."

"He's a friend."

She nods, slow and rhythmic, almost hypnotic in the sway of her movements. Her eyes, though, glinting purple beneath the dim lights, are sharp with intelligence and bright with a fervor he'd hate to be on the wrong side of. "Good to know I don't have to gut him."

Keith lets his smile win, looking once more to Beezer as the dog lays his head back down, rubbing his thumb between his closed eyes. "No, not him."

"He watches you a lot. You let us know if he becomes trouble," Rolo says, voice a murmur. His eyes remain closed, body moving with his beat.

"He listened to me sing for a bit, but he doesn't stay down here for long." Her smile is toothy, glint of her canines sharp. "I think he fears us."

Keith nods, exchanging a knowing look with her. It's a silent promise. It's in the steel of their gaze and the lines tensing around their eyes and lips. Being an ironblood isn't easy, and there's a camaraderie in finding others like you. It's a trust they've built throughout the years. He's never had to act on behalf of them, and they've never had to come to his rescue.

But he knows they would if he needed it. And he knows he would be at their side in a heartbeat.

It's unspoken in the air between them, as binding as any spoken promise.

"Give him our regards," Nyma says. _Their warnings_.

Keith pats Beezer one last time before pushing to his feet. "I will."

He can hear her sing as he makes his way up the concrete steps to the city above, voice echoing and haunting in the station below.

He itches to take the steps two at a time but gets stuck behind a crowd of people, body vibrating with restless energy. He can hear the rain. Can see it falling to the top half of the steps, creating puddles and thin streams that run down the stairs. The air changes, thicker with moisture and filling his nose with the smell of wet concrete.

When he reaches the sidewalk, he steps off to the side, pausing as he looks around. Despite the rain, the city streets are just as crowded as they usually are. Filled with the dark colors of coats, hats, and hoods. Bodies hunched over, half hidden by umbrellas. Walking quickly, feet splashing in puddles, desperately trying to get to their destinations. Cars whiz by on the road, tires kicking up droplets.

The air shifts once more. Growing colder. Sending a chill rolling across the exposed skin at his neck like a breath of ice. A shadow passes over him. A body in his peripheral vision. The rain stops, and Keith turns to find himself faced with Lance's grin.

The bubble in his chest pops, bursting into a thousand sparks that shoot through his veins like a live-wire, tingling and buzzing, igniting his nerves. It's a rush of euphoria, making him feel light and dizzy, body barely tethered to the ground.

It's a thrill unlike any other.

It's dangerously addicting.

"Hey," Lance greets, short and simple, smile somehow bright and shy, all at once.

"Hey," Keith breathes, unable to taper down his own smile. It tastes like relief.

Someone passes close by, forcing Keith to step forward to move out of the way. Forcing him closer to Lance. Neither of them mind. Neither of them move away. Huddled close beneath the umbrella Lance holds between them.

It's held low, obscuring much of their faces from those around them. Lance wears his usual oversized jacket, zipped up and hood pulled high to hide his hair. Keith knows it's less to protect himself from the rain and more to conceal his glamoured features. Giving them some semblance of privacy from prying fey eyes.

Any fey can easily tell his clothes are glamoured, but his face is what gives him away as a high fey. This way he can walk with Keith on the streets without drawing too much attention. A fey walking with a human isn't strange. A high fey of the court casually strolling down the busy streets of an ironside city? Yeah, that's a little more suspicious, especially if he's with a mortal.

It's a risk that's wholly unnecessary, but one they find themselves taking all the same.

"Nyma and Rolo say hi," Keith says, eyes roaming over Lance's face as he stands close, gaze lingering on his lips for a moment before lifting to meet Lance's.

"Who?" He asks, but he sounds distracted, eyes lidded and dark, swirling like storm clouds as he tilts his head.

"The singer and the drummer playing down in the station."

"Ah, the ironbloods." There's something guarded there. A purse of his lips as his smile fades.

It prompts him to say, "They won't hurt you." Smirk curling, lopsided as he tilts his head, feeling it crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "Unless you hurt me first."

Lance lifts an eyebrow. "Protective, huh?"

He shrugs. "We stick together."

Lance hums, turning as he drapes an arm over Keith's shoulders, pulling him close beneath the umbrella and guiding them down the sidewalk. "Well, I'm glad you have them watching your back. The siren threatened me."

"She did?"

He nods. "Not directly, but through her song." His smile is wry. "I know enough about sirens to hear a warning when it's there. My grandmother used to sing us warnings when she knew we were up to no good."

Keith's brows furrow, glancing sidelong to catch the nostalgia adorning Lance's features, soft and fond and distant. "I thought sirens were winter court fey."

The lines around his eyes tighten, voice losing its whimsy as he says, "They are."

Keith doesn't push it, and Lance doesn't offer anything else. They walk to the parlor in strained, but comfortable silence. Lance's arm remains around his shoulders, umbrella held low to hide his face. Whenever Keith feels the telltale prickle of fey eyes, Lance tenses at his side, head bowed and lips pursed. But the weight of eyes never lasts long.

Lance walks him to work, and then lingers in the parlor for several more hours. He hovers around Keith until he shoos him away so he can work on some designs. He bothers Pidge until she pushes him out of her piercing room so she can focus on taking stock.

Then he sits on one of the couches near the window, arm resting on the back of it and chin resting in his palm. He looks beautiful lounging there, especially when daylight breaks through the clouds and the sunlight highlights the glamour shimmering on his cheekbones. It catches in his eyes, dazzling shades of crystal blues.

But there's an edge about him. A rigidness. His eyes are sharp and unblinking as he stares diligently out the window. His gaze flickers at everyone who passes, and there's a slight purse to his lips.

The fact that Lance is on guard is unnerving, but the fact that he's watching is enough to put him at ease.

And when Lance stiffens and stands to pull the curtains on the floor length windows closed, Keith merely retreats into the back room and doesn't question it.

* * *

"I have to go."

Keith looks up, Kosmo's head cupped in his palms, fingers dug into the wolf's fur. Lance stands a few feet away, turned to stare off into the distance. There are lines around his pursed lips, brows pinched. His gaze is unfocused, blue irises stormy and gray as they swirl.

What catches Keith's eye, however, is the earring that dangles from his ear. The blue gemstone is glowing, pulsing with a faint internal light.

"What?" He pushes himself to his feet, patting Kosmo one last time as his fingers slip away.

Lance turns to him then, the ghost of a smile on his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes. "I have to go," he repeats, lifting one shoulder into a small shrug. "Allura is calling for me."

Something in his chest twists. Small, but sharp. He can feel his stomach drop, but he ignores it. Ignores it like he ignores the shiver of disappointment that ripples across his skin. He purses his lips to keep from scowling as he steps toward Lance, as if getting closer might prolong their time together. "How do you know?"

Lance lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely to his earring as he turns to face Keith. "This is a token of hers. All of her closest supporters have them. She can call us home quicker than using messengers."

Keith frowns, eyes narrowed on the dangling blue gem. "Do you have to go?" He hates how sour he sounds.

Lance, however, laughs. A low chuckle that has shivers running down Keith's spine. "Yes," he says, eyes lightening with amusement, but smile still small. "Unfortunately. I can't ignore her summons, and as much as I'd love to stay here with you— _both_ of you—" He holds out a hand for Kosmo, who presses his head to Lance's palm. Lance's smile is fond. "I need to be with Allura. She doesn't summon me for nothing, and it's usually when she needs my help." The storm clouds of his eyes darken, smile falling with a purse of his lips. "I won't leave her to face the court alone."

It's a strange feeling. This ugliness in Keith's chest. A bitterness that twists unpleasantly, but is still somehow rebuffed by the fluttering of butterflies.

He doesn't know how it's possible to be jealous of Lance's loyalty while still being enamored with it, but here he is.

Choking down the sour envy, burying it deep inside himself where it can't see the light of day, he offers a small smile and holds out a hand. "We can take you closer to the faerie ring."

Lance lifts a brow, surprise flitting across his features. "Are you sure?" But he reaches out all the same, perhaps automatically, to slip his hand into Keith's.

"Yeah, Kosmo can get us closer." He squats down, pulling Lance down next to him as they turn to face the wolf. Keith runs his free hand over Kosmo's fur, settling it on the back of his neck. "You can blink us, right buddy?"

He meets Keith's gaze, deep golden eyes flashing with an intelligence that he finds most animals lack. Kosmo lets out a sharp yip.

He smiles, scratching the scruff of his neck fondly before turning to Lance, finding the fey's eyes already on him. A smile on his lips that has Keith's stomach doing flips. "Look him in the eyes and picture where you want him to take us. He can only go so far, but it's faster than walking."

Lance mirror's Keith's stance, fingers meeting his on the back of Kosmo's neck. Their other hands clutched loosely at their sides. Keith watches as the two stare at each other. Blue against gold. Two fey creatures. Irises swirling with understanding. He can feel the spark and shift of Kosmo's magic beneath his hand, running like static along his fur, pushing against the thick glamour Keith has woven into his flesh. His own magic reacts to it, warming in his veins and making his hair stand on end.

"I've never traveled by blink wolf," Lance says under his breath, holding Kosmo's gaze. "What does it feel li—"

It's a rush of static. A shock that flares through his body. Lightning quick. Making him stiffen. Making the air rush from his lungs. A jolt to his entire system. His nerves are alight with sensation, unable to tell the difference between hot and cold, only registering _something_.

His vision goes white.

But it only lasts a fraction of a second.

Between breaths, in the space between blinks, they reappear in another section of the forest. No longer atop his favorite hill and amongst a field of flowers and tall grass. They're deep within the trees, cloaked by shadows.

He's not entirely certain where they are, but he knows why. He can feel the hum of magic. It's a vibration in the earth beneath his feet, just barely beyond comprehension. It's a tension in the air itself, power pulled taut and poised to snap.

He stands slowly, pulling Lance to his feet, catching him with both hands on his elbows when he stumbles. "Whoa," he breathes, eyes becoming more clear as he blinks. "That was wild."

Keith feels a small smile tug at his lips. "Sorry, I forgot to warn you it can be a little disorienting at first."

Lance's smile is coy, even as he regains his balance and clarity returns to his features. "I think you just wanted to catch me as I fell." There's a tease there. A game. One that Keith knows he shouldn't play.

Still, he lets a smirk curl at his lips as he shrugs, sliding one hand into his pocket as he says. "Where to now?"

Lance's smile falls, confusion pinching his features as he says, "You shouldn't take me any closer."

Keith meets his gaze, one brow raised, challenging. "You shouldn't walk me to work, either."

Lance looks him over, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, lips pursed into a thoughtful pout. But his eyes dance with the smile that he refuses to let form. Then he shrugs, turning before his grin can crack through. "This way."

He leads Keith through the forest, hand in hand. The air here is like static across Keith's skin, catching and sparking against the magic that lurks in his blood. The vegetation grows thick, blocking out much of the light and casting long shadows. Beams of sun peak through, cutting through the darkness and igniting dust motes that hover in the air. The birds are loud. The bugs are louder. There's no path cut into the grass, and the forest grows wild.

There's no sign of mankind's touch, and the further they go, the more Keith wonders if they've somehow already managed to cross into the fey realm.

His eyes dart at every movement, body stiffening at every sound.

Lance's fingers curl between his own, squeezing gently as he offers a small smile. "No one's around. I'll sense them long before we see them." Though it doesn't make him any less wary, it eases his frazzled nerves. "You don't have to come this far," he adds quietly.

Keith merely squeezes his hand back, lifting his chin a little higher. "I want to."

Lance turns back forward, but his smile curls at the edges. "Okay."

When Lance's pace slows, Keith knows they're getting close. They slink through the shadows offered by the thick canopy above, and Lance pauses for a moment, head cocked as he listens. Keith waits with baited breath, free hand dropped to sink into Kosmo's fur, for comfort and for a quick escape.

But then Lance nods, reaching out to move aside a gathering of branches, smiling as he gestures him forward. "The coast is clear."

Keith steps through the trees into a clearing, breath catching in his lungs.

He's never seen a faerie ring, but it's hard to mistake it for anything else. The clearing rises to a small hill, on the crest of which is a circle of rocks and mushrooms. The mushrooms grow thick and wide, toadstools that are far too pristine to be natural. The rocks glisten in the sunlight, and if he stares for too long, he swears he sees them pulsing. The sun hits the hill just right, illuminating it and casting the forest around them in dark relief, stretching the shadows and making them look far more menacing.

He thinks that to mortal eyes, the faerie ring must look beautiful. Magical, in a way. In a way that nature tends to be, drawing people towards the innate beauty of the world. Like sunsets on the ocean and rolling mountains in autumn.

But he can feel the crackle of magic in the air, real and powerful. It sinks into his lungs with every breath, tugging at something deep within. Makes the magic curled tight in his core unfurl, reaching for it instinctually.

It's refreshing.

It's a breath of crisp, clean air.

It feels exhilarating.

It's a power, chaotic and wild, curling around him, far from his control.

It's a reminder of everything he should fear.

It's terrifying.

Adrenaline, hot and cold, thrilling in the best and worst ways.

He can see the air above the faerie ring shimmer. Like a curtain in the wind. Translucent and sparkling. Catching the light as it wavers in a breeze he can't feel. He wonders if humans can see it. He wonders if they can see the way the rocks glow. He wonders if they can hear the howl of a wind from the other side. He wonders if they can hear the crackle of magic and feel the static of energy. He wonders if the toadstools look innocent or if they can tell the colors are too bright and too unnatural.

He wonders what it would be like to look upon the faerie ring without a sense of apprehension and dread.

Kosmo stops at his side, leaning into his leg. His eyes drift around the clearing, a soft whine growling in his throat. Keith reaches for him absently, scratching behind his ears. He wonders if this is the ring Kosmo came running through all those years ago, trying to find safety while certain death chased on his heels.

Lance steps up to his side, and Keith tears his gaze from the faerie ring to look at him. His expression is carefully neutral. Lips pursed into a thin line that's neither a smile nor a frown. His face is smooth, clear of lines and creases. He looks as pristine as the toadstools, crafted purposefully and molded to perfection.

He hates seeing Lance like this.

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know." He sounds so distant. A forlornness that's out of place in his voice.

Keith tugs at his hand, forcing him to turn. He frowns, brows furrowed as he looks Lance over. "Be safe."

Finally, a crack. Lines around his eyes crinkling. A smile daring to touch his lips. "That's what I should be saying to you."

Keith huffs a short, dry laugh. "I'm not the one who has to deal with a fey court."

"No," Lance hums, stepping closer. Close enough that their toes touch and their chests reach for each other with every breath. "But you _are_ an impulsive, hotheaded, and stubborn ironblood."

Lance's smirk is infectious. The caress of his words is intoxicating. The soft melody of his voice is enchanting. The air holds a chill, the faerie ring crackling with energy that puts him on edge, but he's drawn to the warmth radiating from Lance. Finds himself leaning into it. He hasn't let go of his hand.

He knows he should go— knows he _needs_ to— but he can't bring himself to step away.

He's comforted by the fact that neither can Lance.

"You should go," he says, amusement lifting at the edges of his words. "Before anyone sees you."

Keith swallows past the lump in his throat, finding it hard to breathe. "I know."

"Why don't you?"

"I don't know."

Lance's laugh is a breath caressing his cheeks. His free hand rises to brush the hair back from Keith's face, tucking it gently behind his ear. Fingers delicate against his skin. Hot to the touch. He feels Lance linger on the gold ear-cuff, tracing the patterns with fingertips and eyes. Keith hasn't stopped wearing it since he found it, and he's not entirely sure why.

It just feels... _right_ to wear it. Makes something deep in his chest ache when he doesn't. Ignites something in his lungs when he catches sight of it in the mirror.

And Lance is always drawn to it with gentle touches, which Keith will admit he's addicted to.

"You're a good liar," Lance says, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. Keith is drawn to it. The ghost of a smile. The way it lights up his face and shines in his eyes. The soft, gentle curve of those lips. Wonders if they're as soft as they look. Wonders if Lance would be as gentle as his touches or if his kisses would be rough and desperate, burning like the way Keith's blood does when they touch—

"How do you know I'm lying?"

He watches that smile curve wider, lopsided and coy. "Because you're staring at my lips."

Keith's eyes snap up. Clashes with swirling blue. Come alive with the magic in the air. Gemstones that shimmer and shine, gleaming with a knowing amusement. But Lance doesn't hold his gaze.

His eyes trail down, down, lidded and dark... to settle on Keith's lips. His hand shifts, moving to cup his jaw. His palm is so soft and warm, fingers long and gentle, buried in his hair. Keith leans into the touch, breath caught in his throat, eyes lidded as he waits— as he watches—

Lance's thumb moves across his mouth, a gentle caress, pressing against the flesh of Keith's bottom lip, just to the right of Keith's piercing. His lips part with the pressure. Breath shallow and shaking. His tongue moves out of habit, attempting to lick his lips and instead running against the tip of Lance's thumb.

He can practically _feel_ the man shudder.

But his eyes never leave Keith's lips. He can see the glint of his piercing in the reflection of Lance's irises. His thumb shifts, nail touching the metal. "I wonder if it will burn," he muses, voice barely audible, thoughts forming without his consent.

The press of Lance's forehead against his. The gentle breeze tugging at his clothes. Lance's breath against his lips. Keith's eyes fluttering closed, anticipation coiling hot and tight. Lance's thumb sliding down his chin, out of the way— but he doesn't move.

He waits.

He holds just out of reach.

He gives Keith the out. All he needs to do is take it.

But he doesn't.

He pushes forward, tilting his weight onto his toes and closing the distance between them.

Lance's lips are as soft as Keith hoped they would be. Flawless and perfect. His hand on Keith's jaw slides down to his neck, shifting around to cradle the back of his head. His touch is gentle, reverent, but his kiss is firm. He slots their lips together with purpose, breath held for a long moment before he exhales through his nose, body melting into Keith's.

His touch is warm, and Keith's body tingles, a buzz of excitement flitting through his veins as something in his chest blooms. The anticipation snaps, sending sparks fizzing around in his chest, reaching down into the cold, dark hollow and bringing light to the shadows and warmth to the chill and clarity to something he's always felt and never been able to understand—

And then Lance pulls away, and the clarity slips between his fingers like smoke.

He stays close. Bodies pressed together. Heavy breaths mingling. Lips parted and wet. Eyes lidded and pupils blown wide. Keith's hand is on Lance's hip, though he's not sure when that happened. His thumb absently slips beneath Lance's shirt, caressing the sharp hipbone.

"Does it hurt?" Keith asks, curious and breathless as he stares at Lance's lips. He can't tell if they're redder than they should be, but there's no obvious welts or burns.

Lance's tongue peaks out, running reverently over his lips, lingering at the center where Keith's piercing would press. When Keith drags his gaze away, meeting Lance's eyes once more, something has changed. Something between them. Something in the air. Something in the way Lance looks at him. Touches him. Leans into him. Something subtle. A predator's grace slipping seamlessly into his body language. Making Keith react instinctively, heart racing and hair stand on end, but the pleasant curl low in his gut is definitely not from fear.

"Not enough to make me stop," he says, half the words mumbled against Keith's lips as he leans forward for another kiss.

And another.

And another.

Keith presses against him, melting into his embrace as his hands automatically find Lance's hips, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to slide around to his back, palms pressed eagerly to warm skin, holding them together. Lance's arms wrap around his neck, resting on his shoulders, clinging to him as he cradles Keith's head at the perfect angle, fingers curling into his hair.

There's nothing shy about the way they kiss. Nothing hesitant or uncertain.

They fall into it without pause. Sinking into each other. Moving together like they were made to. Bodies snapping into place. Hands and lips moving of their own accord. Reacting to an instinct that he's never experienced. Never knew he had.

It feels like when he spars with Shiro, muscle memory taking over.

It lacks the jittery tingles of giddy anticipation that he expects. There's no breathless awe and gentle exploration.

There's only the gentle hum of relief. The building burn of something sparking and catching between them. It doesn't feel like something new. It feels... familiar. It tugs at something inside himself that he can't quite grasp, but something his body feels nonetheless. Sinking into familiarity. Sinking into something he's been aching for.

Kissing Lance is wonderful and heated, desperate and burning— but it's not... _new_.

They pull away when Kosmo lets out another soft whine, uncomfortable with the nearness of the faerie ring. Lance looks at him, dazed and content, but Keith's brows furrow as confusion starts to prickle at the back of his mind—

"Why doesn't that feel like a first kiss?"

Lance pulls himself away slowly, reluctance clear in his lingering touch. But he eases away, walking backwards up the hill on slow steps, body shifting with the grace of a predator, smooth as water. He holds Keith's gaze, lips quirked into a small, mischievous smile.

And Keith knows he won't answer.

"Before that day at the subway station, did we know each other?"

The tip of Lance's tongue presses to his bottom lip, slow and thoughtful. "Ask me again another time." He tilts his head, smile playful even as his eyes look reluctant. "You know how it is with us fey. Third time's the charm."

And with that, he steps over the faerie ring. He doesn't disappear. There's no flash of light or burst of sparks. His body shimmers with the strange curtain of magic, holding Keith's gaze as he slowly fades.

The last thing he sees is a wink, and then Lance is gone and the hill is empty.

* * *

"I'm not saying you _can't_ , I'm just saying it's not _natural_ ," Pidge says, idly chewing on her straw as they make their way back to the tattoo shop.

Keith has his own coffee in one hand and one for Shiro in the other. He huffs, eyes narrowed at nothing in particular as his face twists into a scowl. "There's nothing _natural_ about cereal anyway."

"It doesn't matter. The natural order of things is to put it in the bowl, _and then_ pour in the milk."

"What does it matter if it all ends up in the same bowl anyway?"

" _Oh my god_."

"Hunk and Shay agreed with me that it doesn't matter."

"They don't have any say. Cereal is human food."

"Hunk is a food expert."

"So he should know better, but he doesn't." They stop at a corner, and Pidge turns to face him while they wait for the light to change. "I now have a hypothesis that the reason you eat cereal wrong is because you're not fully human."

"There's no _wrong_ way to eat cereal, Pidge." He pauses, eyes squinting as his lips curl. "Actually, no. I take that back. There _is_ a wrong way."

"Worse than you?" Pidge cocks an eyebrow.

"Yeah, Shiro."

"Oh, no. What does he do?" Pidge practically bounces on her toes, eyes alight with mischief. "Please tell me it's terrible so I can drag him for it."

"He eats his cereal soggy."

" _No_."

He nods, solemn. "Yeah. He waits for it to get soft and soggy before eating it."

"That's _disgusting_ ," Pidge cackles, laughter bubbling out of her. "Oh Jesus Christ, I can't wait to tell Matt. He's going to _freak_ —“

It all happens so fast.

The light turns. The crowd around them starts to move. Pidge turns quick, already stepping off the curb. He doesn't notice the fey until it's too late. He sees the telltale shimmer as Pidge collides with their back, sending the fey stumbling forward and the bag in their hand to go crashing to the concrete.

He reaches out automatically, before can register what he's doing.

He's not sure if the instinct was born from spending too much time with fey or if he was worried about Pidge accidentally causing harm to one.

Either way, he doesn't come to his senses until his hands wrap around the fey's arm, steadying them and keeping them from falling. There's a spark at his touch. A brief arcing of magic as the fey reacts to his sudden touch. He lets go immediately, hand flying to his chest, but the fey is already turning—

Eyes glow yellow beneath the thin shimmer of their glamour, pupil-less and without irises. Thin lips curl back to reveal thick, sharp teeth. Markings drag back from their cheeks and pulling back from their brow-less forehead. Skin a pale shade of purple. They straighten to their full height, towering over him. Their proportions are off. Arms and legs just too long to be natural. Just too willowy to be human. Neck far too long, even as they hunch at the shoulders, seemingly boneless as they twist and turn their head to gaze down at him.

Eyes boring into his own, searching— pinning— hiss slipping past their lips—

“My apologies.” Pidge's voice cuts through the building tension. She's already scooped up their bag, stepping between them to hand it over to the fey. A pleasant, polite smile is plastered to their lips, expression open and kind, but he can see the lines straining around their eyes. He can see the stiffness in her posture. "I wasn't looking where I was going. It won't happen again. I apologize."

The fey looks Pidge over with a newfound interest, picking them apart with glowing golden eyes, head twisting unnaturally from side to side. Their fingers are too long as they reach for the bag, curling far too slowly around the handle, nails long and sharp.

Their glamour is thick. It shines where the sun hits them, like a glare off the ocean. Dances around their skin and obscuring their form. It's hard to look at directly, but Keith schools his features into indifference, refusing to let himself so much as squint against the glare.

He wonders what Pidge sees. If she can tell the fey's limbs are disproportionate, or if the glamour covers that. He wonders if she can see the way they move is inhuman and strangely boneless.

Not for the first time, he wonders what it would be like to see them through human eyes. If they look just as eerie to the human mind despite the glamour.

Then Pidge's hand is tight around his arm, dragging him into the street with the crowd. "C'mon, Keith. Before the light turns."

They walk quickly. With purpose. Silent and tense as they weave through the crowd and try to put distance between themselves and that corner.

"Are they watching us?" Pidge asks, voice tight and barely louder than a breath.

Keith turns, glancing over his shoulder. He finds the fey's eyes instantly. They're a head taller than most of the crowd. Standing several blocks back. Watching them. Unmoving, but watching. "Yeah."

" _Fuck_ ," she hisses, running a hand through her hair. She glares straight ahead. "I didn't even see them. I should've _known_ —"

"I wasn't paying attention either. It's not your fault."

"Are they following us?"

He looks as they cross another street. The fey stands several blocks away still. Oddly unmoving, but undeniably closer. Eyes turned toward them as they hurry across traffic. He grits his teeth, jaw aching. "Yeah."

" _Fuck_. Fuck. I tried to be polite. Was I not polite enough? Did bumping into them count as a slight?"

"I don't know." He wishes he had answers. He wishes he could comfort her. But the truth of the matter is that no matter how polite she is, every fey reacts differently. Every fey counts a slight differently. The fey is following them, watching them, but it's hard to tell why. He can't tell if they're merely curious, or if they took offense and are now planning to prey on Pidge.

Neither is good. And he's not going to let it happen.

"C'mon," he says, walking past the tattoo shop with quick steps, lengthening his stride. Pidge has to jog to keep up.

"Where're we going?"

"We can't go to the shop or home when they're watching. We don't want them to know where to find us." _Us_. Because Pidge isn't in this alone. "We have to lose them and then hope they lose interest."

He passes Shiro's coffee to Pidge, pulling out his phone to call Shiro. He picks up after only the second ring. _"Hey, I just saw you two walk past the shop, what's up—"_

"Pidge and I are being followed," he says, quick and sharp, voice kept low.

A pause. A voice like steel. _"By who?"_

"Don't know. Pidge bumped into one of them on our way back, and now they're following us."

_"Did they say anything? Did you feel any malice?"_

"No."

_"Ask Pidge. She's more sensitive to fey auras since she can't see past the glamour."_

He glances to Pidge, whose lips are pursed and eyes hard, gaze darting between him, the sidewalk ahead, and behind them. He doesn't know if she can even see the fey in the crowd. "Did you feel any malice from them?" He asks. "With your sixth sense?"

Pidge stares at the ground in front of them, face scrunched up in thought. "I... I don't think so. I got the fey tingles, and I got that kick of _back the fuck away_. Like fight or flight kicking into overdrive. But it was mostly just off-putting. Not really angry."

Over the phone, Keith can hear Shiro's sigh. _"That's good. Fey usually react outright when they consider something a slight. They won't be able to touch you, but I don't like that they're curious.”_

"Me either." He glances at Pidge. "Shiro says you probably didn't slight them, so they can't hurt us."

Pidge lets out a long breath. "Okay," she mumbles. "Okay, okay, okay..."

"Shiro, we're going to head towards the river."

_"That's a nearly forty minute walk."_

"I know, but I don't like the look of this fey, and I want to lose them. We'll catch the subway back into town."

_"Alright, be careful."_

"We will." He hangs up, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

For a moment— just a brief moment— he considers calling Lance, but there's no point. He's still in the fey realm, and Keith doesn't want to worry him. Impulsive, stubborn, hotheaded ironblood or not, he can still take care of himself. Himself and Pidge.

Still, he recognizes the longing to hear Lance's voice, knowing it would settle the anxiousness crawling restlessly beneath his skin. But he doesn't dwell on it. Shoves it aside to think about later. Or never.

"I was _not_ planning on exercising today," Pidge grumbles, breath already heavy as she hurries to keep up with Keith's brutal pace.

"Isn't there a game shop in the north city you've been wanting to visit anyway?"

At that, the light returns to Pidge's eyes. "Fuck, you're right." She grins, a certain hop entering her steps. "Makin' lemonade out of lemons."

* * *

Keith feels the heavy eyes on them all the way to the bridge. Like the burn of ice against his skin. Making his flesh crawl. But the fey doesn't follow them across the river. Nor do they see them again when they take the subway back to the inner city.

Shiro's coffee is cold by the time they get back, but he doesn't mind.

* * *

They don't see the fey again, but the effects are lasting.

Pidge puts up a front of nonchalance, but he can see the way she glances over her shoulder. The way her eyes are wide and wild. The way she hovers close to his side and hides in the piercing room once they're back at the shop.

Shiro gives her the next few days off, just in case.

Keith goes about his days. Through his routines. He feels eyes on him, but he's not sure if they're real or his own paranoid imagination. Whenever he looks, he can't find anyone watching him. Fey or otherwise.

An uneasy feeling has settled in his chest. Writhing and squirming. Making his chest feel tight and his fingertips numb. It's a paranoia that itches at the back of his mind. A poison in his thoughts. It makes it hard to think. Makes it hard to sleep.

He lies awake at night, curled up with Kosmo, staring at the ceiling as he remembers the way Lance's lips felt against his. The way Lance felt pressed up against him. The feeling of Lance's fingers in his hair and dancing across his skin.

He misses him. Far more than he ever thought he would. Far more than he ever should.

He's not sure when _Lance_ became synonymous with _safe_ , but it's a realization that comes creeping up on him in the depths of night, curling around his heart with a warmth that's strangely grounding. Strangely calming. Settling the nerves bouncing around restless in his veins.

He thinks he should be worried.

But strangely, he's not.

* * *

Just when he thinks things are getting back to normal— his paranoia has calmed and Pidge has gotten back to work— he walks out of the bathroom on Saturday night to find Shiro lounging on the couch.

He pauses, towel wrapped around his waist and clothes bundled under one arm, and he stares. It doesn't take Shiro long to notice him. He tilts his head back, smiling at the confusion that's pinching his features. "Hey," he says, like it's a completely normal thing for him to be here, and waves to the open pizza box on the coffee table. "I brought dinner."

Keith hums, nodding as Shiro looks back to the tv. He slips into his room, changing quickly into sweats and a t-shirt before joining Shiro in the living room. He, too, is wearing sweats, the ones with the holes in the knees, and an old t-shirt that's thin and fraying. Keith has lived with him long enough to know what he wears when he doesn't plan on going out.

"What're you doing here?" He asks as he drops onto the couch, leaning back and propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Shiro glances at him sidelong, paused with a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. "I... live here?"

Keith gives him a flat stare, crossing his arms over his chest. "Tonight is your date night."

Shiro's mouth snaps shut. "I don't have a date night."

"You've started hanging out with Adam every Saturday night for the past four weeks." Keith leans forward taking a slice of pizza before leaning back, cocking one eyebrow and shooting Shiro a knowing smirk. "Sounds like a date night to me."

Shiro's lips purse, stifling the sigh that slips from him. He looks away, sinking lower on the couch. "I guess that's a fair point."

"So why aren't you with him? Is he busy?"

"No, no, it's..." He leans forward, setting his pizza slice aside. He rests his elbows on his knees, hunched over, fingers wringing together as he cracks his knuckles. "It's more complicated than that..."

"More complicated... how?"

"I'm... not sure I should keep seeing him." It comes out in a whisper, pained at the edges.

"Don't you really like him?"

Shiro runs his fingers through his hair, head turned away. "Yeah. Yeah, I do, but... I don't think it's going to work out."

Keith leans forward, setting his slice aside to give Shiro his full attention. He mirrors his position, elbows on his knees, half turned toward him. "Why not?"

Shiro turns to look at him, expression tired and voice haggard. "Because I'm _fey_ , Keith. And he's human."

Keith frowns, brows coming together. "So? My mom was fey and my dad was human, and you've spent the last ten years telling me that there was nothing wrong with that."

He sees the smile fighting to break through, twitching at the corner of his lips. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, but there's wry amusement in his voice as he says, "Yes, and you've fought me about it the whole time. I thought you of all people would understand. You've always been wary of human fey relationships."

"Yeah, but _you_ haven't. Besides, I'm an ironblood. There's a difference."

"Not that big of a difference."

"My kind is _hunted_."

"... That is a valid point."

"So why aren't you with Adam?"

"It's... complicated."

Keith crosses his arms over his chest, letting himself fall back onto the couch as he shrugs. "I've got time. Tell me." Shiro hesitates, and Keith makes a show of an exasperated sigh. "If you tell me about it, I'll tell you something."

"Are you making a deal with me?" He asks, one eyebrow raised, smile definitely breaking through.

Keith allows himself a small smirk. "Maybe."

"That's a pretty vague deal. You could tell me literally anything."

"I promise it's relevant."

"Well, now I'm curious."

"I know. So do we have a deal?"

Shiro sighs, collapsing back on the couch next to him. "I guess we do." He tilts his head back, resting it on the couch, staring at the ceiling, lines formed around his eyes and lips pursed into a small frown. "It's just... the whole thing with Pidge and that fey stalking you was sort of a wake up call."

"Shiro, we're fine. Nothing happened—"

"I know, but... It reminded me how dangerous my kind can be. How just being with me can put Adam in danger."

"You're the most domesticated fey I've ever met. How can being with you possibly put Adam in danger?"

Shiro's smile is small and wry, voice soft as he says, "I wasn't always domesticated, Keith."

"You grew up as a changeling. You grew up _with humans_. You've been domesticated from the start." He's convinced it's one of the biggest reasons Shiro has never felt dangerous to him. Half the time, he feels more human than not. That, and the fact that Shiro has been his closest friend and family for ten years, watching after him and teaching him and keeping him safe... yeah, he can't imagine Shiro bringing danger to anyone.

Shiro searches his face, eyes swirling like molten silver. Like Lance, there's not much Shiro's glamour hides, and Keith has grown so accustomed to what little shimmer there is that he barely notices anymore. But Shiro's eyes are always a window to his fey nature. Irises shifting like seas of molten metal, back lit and glowing like embers within.

"I never told you about my time in the summer court, did I?"

Keith shakes his head, lips pursed. "No. You said it wasn't important because that's not who you are now."

Shiro hums, nodding as a small smile tugs at his lips. "It's true. That feels like a lifetime ago. And I hope I never have to go back."

"You... make it sound like there's a possibility you might have to."

Instead of answering, Shiro says, "I can't tell you what I did in court. I swore an oath not to tell anyone."

"Why?" He asks, though he knows Shiro won't answer. Not directly.

"At the time, I thought it would protect you. Now, I'm not so sure." He stares at the tv, but his gaze is distant and unfocused. He looks thoughtful, nodding slightly to himself. "I'm going to change the subject now," he says, voice carefully neutral. "And I'll let you draw conclusions from that as you will. You've always been good at reading between the lines."

Keith swallows hard, feeling it settle hard and solid in his stomach. It fizzles and bubbles up his chest, and he's not sure if it's dread or excitement. "Okay."

"What are the three laws of fey?"

The answer comes to him easily enough. An automatic answer born from years of having the information not only drilled into him, but living with a fey. "Speak no false words. Break no oaths. Harm no outsiders."

Shiro nods, humming softly as Keith rattles them off. "Right. So that last one. What does it mean?"

"Why are you quizzing me?" His brows furrow. "You taught me this like ten years ago—"

"Just... humor me." Exasperation hangs on his words, but his lips curve into a small smile.

Keith huffs, rolling his eyes as he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling as he drawls, "Fey can't directly harm anyone outside of their court without reason. Summer and winter fey can't attack each other or wild fey without being slighted. Which could be anything from an insult to a broken deal to disrespect or being injured, even if it's by accident. The same law protects humans, but it's easier to get a human to slight a fey because they don't understand how things work."

"Right," Shiro says again, nodding. "Every fey is bound by it. Even the highest and oldest fey. Do you know the _one_ exception to that law?"

Keith rolls his head to the side, eyes narrowing at he looks at Shiro. "There's an exception?"

Shiro's lips quirk. "I'll take that as a no." He turns to face Keith, smile fading as his expression takes on something more solemn. "The knight."

"The... knight?" he echoes.

"Both courts have a knight in direct service to the king or queen, and oftentimes to the prince or princess as well. The knight is their champion and their only way around the third law. Once given the mantle of knight, that fey can harm anyone, regardless of court or slight."

"That sounds... dangerous," he says slowly, the chill of realization creeping through him, prickling at his lungs and pushing his heart to beat faster.

"It is," Shiro agrees. One hand moves to his chest, fingers pressing to his sternum as he rubs his chest through his shirt. The movement catches Keith's attention, breath catching in his throat as a shock of anxiousness ripples through him, shuddering down his spine. But he has no idea _why_ , and the itching at the back of his mind slips further into darkness whenever he reaches for it. "The winter court uses their knight mostly as an assassin. The summer knight's job is to stop the winter knight."

Keith's mouth feels dry, and it takes him a moment to find his voice. "And you're telling me this because..."

Shiro meets his gaze, eyes swirling silver, lips pressed into a thin line. "I was very well known in the summer court." His voice is even. Casual, if it wasn't for the way each word feels like it's pressing. Pushing Keith toward the right conclusion.

He doesn't need to be pushed far.

"You were the summer knight," he breathes. The knot in his stomach is decisively dread, though there's a lightness in his chest as he looks at Shiro.

He's always been impressed with Shiro. His physical prowess. His kindness. How quickly he takes charge of situations, and the confidence with which he leads. He has all the potential to be cruel, but he's never been anything other than kind. Protective.

He used to admire Shiro. Still looks up to him, if he's being honest. But it's leveled out in recent years, ever since they've started to feel more like equals than anything. Best friends rather than fucked up kid and guardian.

But right now, he feels that familiar sense of awe.

Shiro smiles, small and wry, but it doesn't reach his eyes. There's a sadness there. A hollowness that Keith feels ache in his own chest. Shiro lifts his shirt, pulling it up to his collarbones. Keith has seen his tattoos a thousand times. Instantly recognizes the one emblazoned across Shiro’s chest.

Right at the enter of his sternum is a seven pointed star encircled by a sun. Spiked, simple wings spread out from it, framing beneath his collarbones, tips at his shoulders.

It’s a tattoo Keith is familiar with, but right now there’s an itch beneath his skin and ice in his veins.

“A knight doesn't retire. The mantle is for life. The only way out is death."

The air rushes from his lungs, eyes widening. "So... you're..."

"Still bound to the court, yes,” he says with a sigh, lowering his shirt once more.

Something nags at the back of his mind, but he's so used to the sensation slipping through his fingers that he nearly ignores it. But this time, the memory doesn't fade. It forms. Pulled to the forefront of his mind, concrete and certain— "Hunk said the winter knight disappeared."

Shiro's smile falls. Replaced by that careful expression. Words stiff as he says, "He did."

Keith's eyes narrow, threads starting to weave tighter, forming a whole picture "Is that why...?"

Shiro's smile is back, along with a soft chuckle. "The summer knight's job is to stop the winter knight. Without the winter knight, the court doesn't need me." He gestures to the living room, smile becoming more genuine. Finally catching in his eyes, making those silver eyes shine like moonlight rippling off the ocean. "So I can live here. With you. I can have my tattoo parlor. I can live whatever life I want.

"And... if the winter knight comes back?" He asks, heart feeling heavy. He already knows the answer.

Shiro is silent for a moment. Then his foot moves, nudging the pizza box on the table. "You should really eat before it gets cold."

Half the pizza is gone and they're thirty minutes into a show Keith hasn't been paying attention to when he says, "Hey, Shiro?"

"Hmm?"

"You should go see Adam tomorrow."

"Keith—"

He turns then, pinning Shiro with a flat stare, eyes narrowed as his lips purse into a stern frown. One he learned from the man himself. "You deserve to be happy. You shouldn't let the courts hold you back. If you want to be with him, you should be with him."

"Being with me could be dangerous for him." He hates how small Shiro sounds. How uncertain and quiet.

Keith, however, finds his frown easing away. He doesn't smile, but he knows it's close. "Sometimes dangerous things are worth it."

Shiro hums, and his eyes turn sharp and searching. Keith looks away, but he knows it's too late. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience." Keith just shrugs. "We had a deal. I share with you, and you share with me."

He lets himself smile. "I kissed Lance."

One eyebrow rises, but he doesn't look surprised. The ghost of a smile touches his lips. "And?"

"And what?"

"What does this mean?"

"I... don't know." A pause, and then Shiro is pushing himself to his feet, stretching before shuffling toward the kitchen. Keith swings an arm over the back of the couch, turning to watch his retreat as he says, "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting a couple of beers," Shiro throws back. He returns a moment later, handing one to Keith.

"What are we celebrating?" Keith asks as they clink their bottles together.

Shiro grins as he lifts his to his lips, eyes dancing with mirth. "To the fact that we're both human enough to be disaster gays."

Keith laughs, and right now, in this moment, safe at his home with his best friend at his side and his dog at his feet, heart still swelling from the memory of his kiss with Lance, he foolishly feels like the courts can't touch him.

* * *

When Lance arrives, Keith is waiting for him. He'd gotten a text twenty minutes ago, and he was too restless to wait inside. So he stands outside, dressed in nothing but sweat pants, barefoot and a blanket wrapped around him.

His head's tilted back, gaze lost on the midnight sky. It's a clear night, and this far from the inner city, he can lose himself in the stars.

Back when he was little, he used to imagine what it would be like to visit those stars. To be far from the fey. To be free.

Lance's arrival isn't preceded with a shout or a flare. Not a sound follows in his wake. Keith sees no movement. No shadow hopping the fence. Not a shift of the plants lining their yard. Not a step. Not a sound. Not a sight.

But he feels the moment Lance is near.

The caress of a chill breeze, running light fingertips of ice along his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It's subtle, but it's unnatural. And it's something he's grown increasingly familiar with and stupidly fond of.

He shivers, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

And then there's a body pressed up against his back. Arms wrapping around his waist, weight settling on his hips. A chin hooked over his shoulder and a brush of hair tickling his ear and cheek.

It would be startling if he hadn't been expecting it.

The smell of salt, rain, and warm sand fills his lungs. He keeps his eyes on the stars, a small smile touching his lips as he leans back into Lance's embrace. His body is solid and sturdy. Warmth radiates from where they touch, even through the blanket.

"Why is the air around you always so cold when you're so warm?" He asks, words murmured into the night. "Aren't you supposed to be a summer court fey?"

Lance hums, and Keith can feel it vibrate through his chest. "My grandma is winter court. A siren. Not all of us got traces of her gifts, but I did."

"That explains your voice."

Lance's head turns, nose trailing teasingly against his skin as Lance smiles against his neck. "You like my voice?"

Keith hums, but he tilts his head against Lance's, and that's as much of an affirmative as he's willing to give. "Is that why the court doesn't like you being one of Allura's suitors?"

Lance scoffs, and Keith can feel his breath tickle his ear. Another shiver runs down his spine, but this one has nothing to do with the cold. His head tilts, his own breath coming short, eager to feel Lance against sensitive skin.

"One of the many reasons, yeah." He holds out one hand in front of them, and Keith watches as a thin layer of ice begins to crystalize on Lance's palm, spreading out to his fingertips. He twists his hand, curling his fingers to catch the light. "They don't mind water magic, but the moment that water freezes, it's taboo," he mumbles. "But I'm not just attuned to ice." He snaps his fingers, and the ice melts away instantly, a single small flame covering over the fingertip of his index finger. "I'm also attuned to fire. A duel nature. Some think that makes me powerful. Some think it makes me weak. Some think it makes me unstable. Some think it makes me untrustworthy."

He rubs his thumb over his finger, and the flame goes out. The arm returns to Keith's waist, wrapping around him tight. He buries his face once more in the curve of Keith's neck.

"But really that's just an excuse to dislike me. The high fey are overly critical of anyone who has Allura's trust. There are just a lot of things to hate about me."

"I've noticed."

Lance huffs an indignant breath before lifting his head to lightly nip at Keith's skin. It's meant to be a playful punishment. A pinch and a tease.

But Keith's breath hitches, a soft sound escaping his lips, surprise and pleasure flashing through him in tandem, coiling low in his gut.

He freezes, and Lance stiffens behind him. The silence stretches, but it doesn't feel tense. Doesn't feel awkward. It feels tight and heated, pulled deliciously taut with anticipation.

A low chuckle, vibrating through his chest. A smile pressed to the sensitive hollow beneath his ear. A voice, mumbled and coy. "I've missed you."

Keith allows himself to smile, but he doesn't give Lance the satisfaction of seeing it. Instead, he steps away, moving around Lance to head back towards the house, but not before reaching out and grabbing his hand. Lance weaves their fingers together, following easily. Keith guides him into the house, locking the door behind them. He doubts Lance is leaving tonight.

Lance lets go of his hand to greet Kosmo, who sprawls out on the couch, tail thumping as Lance coos at him softly.

Keith leaves them to it, wandering down the dark halls back to his room. There he sits on the edge of the bed, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. Lance doesn't make him wait for long. He's there only moments later, a lazy smile stretching across his lips as his eyes find Keith.

His eyes glow faintly in the dark, backlit by moonlight.

He steps into the room, gently pushing the door shut. The night swallows the soft _click_.

Keith watches as Lance peels the jacket from his shoulders, draped it across the back of his desk chair. It's something he's noticed before but never bothered to think about. He's used to Shiro choosing to wear human clothes, but not all fey do. Most prefer to weave clothes from magic, using their glamour to shift it however they like. He's seen Lance do it once before. Knows that he wears his glamour. But he's seen Lance remove his jacket often, and it's never really sunken in until now.

"Your jacket is real," he finds himself saying, staring at the bundled fabric draped over his chair. No matter how powerful the fey, glamoured clothing shouldn't be able to hold form away from them.

"Hmm?" Lance follows his gaze. "Oh, yeah, it is."

"But you wear your glamour?"

"I do."

"Then why the jacket?"

He shrugs, moving across the room with a slinking grace that has the breath slipping out of Keith's lungs. He stops in front of Keith, and his knees spread automatically, allowing Lance to step between them. He briefly wonders if he should feel embarrassed for that, but the moment is short lived as Lance runs his hands along his arms, pushing the blanket away.

"It's special to me," he mumbles, eyes lidded and voice distant as his hands lightly run along Keith's bare shoulders.

"Why?"

"It was a gift." Fingertips trace his collarbones, and Keith feels frozen beneath their touch. Afraid that if he moves, the moment will break. Lance hums, low and appreciative. "You're not wearing a shirt."

Keith's lips tug up into a smirk, eyes lidding as he reaches up to tug at the hem of Lance's shirt. He twists the fabric between his fingers, marveling at how real it feels, despite knowing that it's woven from magic. It barely even shimmers as he rubs it between his fingertips. Lance must be very good at illusion magic.

"You are," he says, tongue slipping out to wet his bottom lip, dragging across his piercing. He smiles when Lance's eyes snap to the movement. "You should fix that."

The fade is as natural for Lance as breathing. A tilt of his head. The smallest stretch of his smile. A deep inhale and a humming exhale. And suddenly the shirt twisted between Keith's fingers starts to shimmer, fading from existence in the space between blinks. One moment there, and the next gone. Dismissed. Leaving Keith's thumb pressed to his fingers.

Then Lance's hands are at his shoulders, pushing him back onto the bed. He scoots backwards as Lance crawls overtop him, hovering above on hands and knees. Grinning down at him with that coy tilt to his lips.

He's beautiful. Brown skin sculpted impeccably across defined but lean muscles. Broad shoulders and narrow hips. Hair trailing down from his belly button. Collarbones cut and defined, begging for Keith to mark them. Arms, thin but strong, caging Keith in.

Even in the darkness, Keith can see the faint pale shimmer of glamor curling around parts of his skin, not unlike the glamour he wears on his cheeks or that which clings to his hair.

Unable to resist, Keith reaches out, fingertips trailing along a curve of glamour that coils across his ribs. His skin is warm, but he shivers beneath Keith's touch. Keith can feel his muscles twitch and flex beneath his hands as they roam up and down his sides. Can feel how his breath shudders. And as he slides a hand up the center of his chest, palm flat, he can feel the rapid beat of his heart.

It matches his own.

But as beautiful as Lance is, his eyes are drawn to the necklace dangling around his neck. A thick, braided black cord. Intricate knots form a small net that fits snug around a gem, holding it safe. His fingers find the cord, moving his hand so the gemstone is cradled in his palm.

He squints in the darkness, trying to make out the color. When he tilts it just right, just enough to catch the moonlight coming in from his window, it gleams a deep purple. Not unlike the gem embedded in his ear cuff. But there's something off about it. Something—

It's not a gemstone. It's... it's a marble. A simple and ordinary glass marble. Pretty, but nothing special.

But there's... something about it. Something— that pulls at a string in his chest. One that runs deep into that hollow he holds so close to his heart. One that when plucked, resonates with no sound. It itches at the back of his mind— a feeling he can't grasp— a thought lost before it can fully form. Something—

"Before that day at the subway station—"

But Lance's hand is pressed to his lips before the question can fully form, covering his mouth and cutting off his voice. He stares, brows furrowed, but Lance only smiles. "Don't. Not yet. Don't ask me a third time just yet."

There's a plea in his voice and a fear in his eyes. And as much as Keith wants to know, he feels his curiosity dissolve and waver when pressed by those begging eyes.

The hand pulls away slowly, cautiously, and Keith hates the wariness that makes Lance's body stiff. So instead he reaches up and cups Lance's face, fingers sliding around behind his neck as he pulls him down.

Captures his lips in a kiss that's simple— that's delicate— that's firm but gentle and reassuring— until the tension melts out of him and Lance eases down onto him, putting their bodies flush and a soft sound escapes his throat.

Exploratory, but familiar. His hands move over Lance's body with an instinct driven by— something. They know where to go. His body knows how to move against Lance's. His lips know how to move. His teeth know where to bite.

New, but familiar.

Familiar, but new.

He loses himself in sensation. In Lance. In the smell of ocean and rain. In the soft noises that Lance makes and the pant of his breath in the quiet of his room. In their heartbeats, beating against ribs in a desperate attempt to reach one another.

That itch still lingers in the back of his mind— the strange tug in his chest— but he lets them be consumed and forgotten in the heat of the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
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> I'm most active on twitter. More info in my pinned tweet <33 To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
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	5. Never Visit a Faerie Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things with Lance are going great. He's letting himself fall. It's a happiness and freedom he never thought he'd have. But no matter how good things are between them, there are bigger things at play. 
> 
> Fey things. Dangerous things. Things that _no one will tell him about_. He's tired of being in the dark, and he's tired of feeling like he's missing pieces of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They boys have been falling in love, but things are getting dangerous for them both. I hope you guys enjoy! Happy reading <33

Keith is cleaning up his station when he hears the door open, followed by the ringing of the brass bell above. It brings with it the patter of rain and the sound of cars zipping through puddles.

The tell tale sign, however, is the rush of cold air that surges into the parlor.

It hits the back of Keith's neck where his ponytail has left him exposed, slipping in past his shirt to dance like fingertips down his back, leaving goosebumps in its ghostly wake. Keith stiffens for only a moment, only long enough to make sure it's him and not another fey—

"Good afternoon, Pidgeon!"

—Before he lets himself smile. He glances over his shoulder to find Lance closing the door behind him, hovering with his hand on the glass as his eyes dart around, lips pursed into a thin line and brow pinched.

But before the trickle of wariness can take hold, Lance is spinning around, frown gone without a trace as a brilliant grin stretches across his lips. He throws his arms wide, the closed umbrella in one hand sending a splatter of rain across the floor. "Did you miss me?"

Pidge sits at the front desk, leaning back in the chair with her arms folded over her chest and feet propped up. Her gaze slowly follows the trail of rain water, lifting a brow when she finds that it's even made it up the wall, before sliding over to Lance. "You were gone?"

His composure crumples in an instant. Arms falling as his shoulders hunch, mouth pursing forward into a pout. Until Lance, Keith had never seen a fey other than Shiro pout, and at this point, Shiro hardly counts. Sometimes he wonders what Lance might be like in court. Wonders if he loses all his bubbly, erratic charm.

Then he remembers the times he's caught a glimpse of that glint of ice in Lance's eyes. Body held tall and lips pressed firm. Face eerily blank and emotionless, even as he smiles.

And he decides that he never wants to see the version of Lance he has to be while in court.

A perfected mannequin of plaster and paint that hides the shadow of himself.

"You are so rude, little bird," Lance huffs. He pulls himself back, folding his arms loosely over his chest, dripping umbrella dangling from his fingers.

Pidge's eyes narrow. "I'm not a bird."

A light scoff, followed by the roll of his eyes. "I've known plenty of birds, and trust me, you're a little bird."

"What does that even _mean?”_

"It means you're aloof, devious, and just as likely to peck the hand that feeds you as you are to nuzzle it. Mischievous to a fault, but ultimately fiercely loyal."

Pidge blinks, frown fading as her expression takes on something more thoughtful. She nods slowly, brows lifted in surprise as she says, "You know what? On second thought, I'll take it."

Lance smirks, that coiling playful curl of his lips, lopsided and catching a spark in his eyes. "I figured you might—"

" _Ah-bub-bub-bub!_ “ Lance freezes mid-step, eyes snapping back to Pidge's. She's leaning forward, feet dropped to the floor. One hand on the desk while the other points at him. Eyes narrowed, she says, "Don't you _dare_ track rain all over the floors. You _know_ I'm going to be the one to clean it up."

Lance's lips purse once more, brow furrowing as he settles back on the welcome mat, looking for all the world like a scolded puppy. He holds Pidge's glare for a moment longer, just until she settles back in her seat, before his eyes find Keith's, pitiful and imploring.

Keith chuckles, turning back to his station as he gives his chair a final wipe down. "I'm almost done."

He tries to take his time, to not let his impatience show, but he can feel Lance's eyes on him, hot on the back of his neck even as shivers run down his spine.

He swipes up his iPad, intent on taking it to the back room, when his eyes catch on the small vase overfilled with forget-me-nots. It's been months, but they remain as pristine as ever. Each petal perfect and practically glistening in the light. He's never seen a single one of them wilt, and as he reaches out to run his fingertips along their velvety soft petals, he swears he can feel them vibrate at his touch.

Still feeling the heat of Lance's gaze, he shakes his head, pulling away from his station and moving into the back room without turning around. Only then does he feel like he can breathe, a sigh rushing out of him as his shoulders slump.

His skin still tingles, blood prickling excitedly in his veins. He's stopped being able to separate the strange mix of wariness and anticipation whenever he's around Lance. It's a restless sort of energy. A vibration that hums through him and ricochets around his chest. It's the need to _run_ , but he's not sure if his instincts are pushing him away or straight into Lance's arms.

Though, given his inability to resist the strange tug in his chest, and given how close they've become, he's going to make an educated guess and say it's the latter.

He still hasn't figured out _why_ he's so drawn to Lance, and he's not foolish enough to believe that it's just a small, haphazard crush. It feels... it feels like _more_ than that. He can't explain it— can barely understand it or make sense of it— he just knows that it feels like... _more_.

More than just simple attraction that has him following Lance where ever he goes. More than simple fascination that has him lost in those swirling blue eyes. More than simple infatuation that has him eager and vibrating with anticipation. More than simple loneliness that has him shivering and leaning into Lance's every touch.

More than a simple crush that has him trusting Lance far more than he logically should.

It's an innate instinct. One that tugs at something in his chest he can't identify. One that has him drawn inexplicably and irrevocably to this man. To this _fey_.

Sometimes he wonders if Lance has him under a spell. He's seen the way their kind play with humans. Luring them in with a flash of their eyes and a touch of glamour. Wrapping their will around a human's heart and clouding their minds.

But... Keith's an ironblood, and that sort of charm has no effect.

There's something... _more_ to this, and Lance still won't tell him what it is.

"Keith?" Shiro glances up from where he's hunched over the desk. His iPad sits in front of him, tablet pen in his hand. He pulls one earbud out as he looks up, welcoming smile on his lips. "Is your appointment already over?"

"Yeah, she had to go as soon as it was done. Paid and ran out nearly before I could give her the aftercare speech. Said she had to hurry back to work," he says as he sets his own iPad to the side before moving to grab his jacket.

"That's a shame. I wanted to see how it turned out." Shiro shifts, resting one elbow on the desk and one on the back of his chair as he turns to face Keith fully. He lifts one, knowing brow. "Do anything special to it?"

"Yeah, just the usual stuff. Lasting color. Quick healing. She said she had a beach trip coming up soon, so I kind of boosted the healing more than usual." Keith shrugs as he slips his jacket on, smoothing it down his chest and checking his pockets for his phone and wallet. "She also mentioned that she tends to be really forgetful, so I gave her a little memory charm. Something to itch a little when she forgets something and send a little jolt to her memory when she scratches it."

Shiro's smile is warm, eyes crinkled at the corners and molten silver eyes glimmering fondly. "That was really kind of you, Keith."

He shrugs, eyes dropping to the floor even as a small smile tugs at his lips as he mumbles, "I just like to do what I can to help."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it, even if she has no idea what you've done."

He runs his fingers through his hair, pulling out his ponytail and shaking his hair loose. "I prefer it this way. The anonymity. I know I've helped them, and that's all I need."

"Your use of blood magic is the most creative and kind method I've ever seen."

"It's all thanks to you. I wouldn't have thought to use it this way if you hadn't opened up a tattoo shop."

Shiro shrugs, pen idly tapping against the desk as he scratches his chin. He's as clean shaven as possible. Just like himself and just like Lance. Few fey actually grow facial hair, and as an ironblood, it's a trait Keith has inherited. As a teen, he'd been made fun of for it. Now, however, he's grateful he doesn't have to bother shaving.

"In that case, you'll need to thank my human parents. One of my moms was a tattoo artist."

Keith pauses, brows furrowing as he tilts his head. "I... didn't know that."

Shiro shrugs, gaze drifting back down to his iPad. "I don't talk about it much. I haven't seen them since my fey nature was revealed, and the court called me back. Why do you think I decided to open a tattoo parlor of all things?"

Keith shrugs, feeling sheepish. "I just thought you liked tattoos."

Shiro chuckles, smile wistful and eyes distant. "I do, but I think... I think all of _this_ is just a way to preserve their memory."

"That's... that's really cool, Shiro." Keith's hand comes down on Shiro's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

Shiro smiles up at him, free hand moving to cover his for a moment. “I appreciate that, Keith. I wish you could've met them."

"Me, too."

A moment of silence stretches. Not tense, but content. Keith grounding Shiro as he lets himself be lost in memory and nostalgia. He doesn't know much about the human women who raised Shiro before his changeling nature was revealed and he left for the Summer Court, but suddenly he wishes he did. All he knows is that it was a long time ago, and by the time Shiro left the Court, both of them were gone. Shiro isn’t very forthcoming about his past, but maybe Keith should make an effort to ask more.

But for now, Lance is waiting for him.

"Taking your break?" Shiro asks as Keith pulls away, straightening his jacket once more.

"Yeah, Lance and I are going to Shay's. Do you want us to pick you up anything—" It's just a flicker of movement. Just the barest of cracks in Shiro's expression. The hardening of his eyes, glinting sharp as steel. The faltering of his smile. Gaze narrowing just a fraction— and then it's all gone. He's back to smiling, but there's a subtle tension around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes that make Keith certain that he hadn't just imagined it. "What's wrong?"

"What'd you mean?" He blinks, feigning innocence. Head tilted to the side and brows furrowed. Keith might have believed him, if he hadn't known Shiro well enough to catch the sheepishness hiding behind his smile.

He frowns, lips pursed. Eyes narrowed. Voice hard as he deadpans, "Shiro."

The man holds his composure for all of five seconds before it crumbles with a sigh. He turns, leaning elbows back on the desk as he hunches over his iPad. "It's... don't worry about it," he mumbles. It's always the same phrase. When he wants to say that it's nothing, but he can't lie. He glances up, pinning Keith with a hard stare. "Just... be careful, alright?"

"You know I always am."

Shiro's smile is small and wry. "That's just the thing, Keith. Humans can change their nature."

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he turns, moving toward the door. "I'll be fine. It's just Lance."

His voice is quiet. Barely more than a whisper. Something Keith is certain he's not supposed to hear but does anyway. "That's what I'm afraid of..."

He's about to turn, about to question it, but—

"Keith! Hurry up!"

Lance is waiting for him. So he steps out of the room, leaving Shiro behind, even as his voice echoes in the recesses of his mind. Repeating that last phrase. Growing more faint with each pulse of his heart, but no less ominous.

But the uncertainty is forgotten as he's faced with Lance's smile, stretched wide and dancing in his lidded eyes. "Hey," he says softly as Keith steps up to him, standing closer than is strictly necessary. There's a lot in that simple word, said so breathlessly. Relief. Surprise. Excitement. Contentment.

Lance's hand reaches out, fingers finding his wrist and delicately sliding down, tracing gently over the curves of his knuckles before sliding his fingers between Keith's. Keith allows himself a small smile. Embraces the bubbling warmth that flutters in his chest. In the way his body tingles from the close proximity, practically yearning for the warmth radiating from Lance's body. Hand on fire where their palms are pressed together.

"Hey," he breaths, head tilting to the side— just enough to line up their lips— eyes flickering down to Lance's in silent question and open invitation—

He sees Lance's smile just seconds before he leans forward. Nose brushing against Keith's before their lips slide together. Hot to the touch and honey sweet. Soft and perfect and dizzying as Lance presses up against him— filling his senses— another hand resting on his hip, sliding around to press against his lower back—

"Hey! Lovebirds!" They jerk apart, turning in tandem to stare at Pidge, who huffs with a scowl. "I'm happy for you and all, but can we please keep the _doorway_ a PDA free zone? I don't need a front row seat to you making out."

Lance grins, but it looks not at all apologetic.

"Sorry, Pidge," Keith says, pushing the door open and tugging Lance along behind him. "Want your usual from Shay's?"

"Yes, please! Extra shot of espresso."

"You're going to die one of these days."

"A caffeine riddled high is the best way to go."

He chuckles as they step out of the shop. Lance unfolds the umbrella, holding it above them before they step out from under the awning. His holds the umbrella low, obscuring their faces as they walk, pulling his hood up for good measure. His free hand then falls casually to Keith's hip, wrapping around his back.

Keith leans into his side, savoring the warmth. Savoring the smell of salt and crackling fire that Lance brings to the rain. His own arm wraps around Lance's back, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket at his side. It feels... natural, to walk like this, but wholly new.

Lance's touch is thrilling as much as it's also relaxing, easing tension out of him as he leans into Lance's warmth.

"What happened with Shiro?" Lance asks, voice casual but with an edge that's far too neutral. Far too carefully crafted. When he looks sidelong at him, Lance remains facing forward, face carefully blank.

Keith can't help the tug of his frown. "What'd you mean?"

When Lance glances at him, there's the ghost of his smile. Of genuine amusement as he arches his brow. "I could hear your voices, and you looked scowly when you came out."

"I did not."

"You did. Your face was pinched like you'd tasted something sour."

"It was nothing..." He mumbles, but he knows he's tense. Knows Lance can feel it.

He hums, low and thoughtful before whispering, "You forget that the only reason I've survived court this long is by being able to read expressions when there are none to read." He chuckles, hand squeezing for just a moment on Keith's hip, jostling him into his side. "You're very good at hiding your thoughts by human standards, but you're a lot easier to read than masks. So... what happened with Shiro?"

Keith huffs, hoping enough indignation will hide the frustration and exasperation in his sigh. "He's just... being over protective." If he hadn't been pressed to Lance's side, he's not sure he would've noticed the slight tense of his shoulders. "I know he trusts you," he says, trying for comfort. "He's just... always been really paranoid and protective."

The tension eases out of Lance's shoulders, but he feels far from relaxed. His voice isn't strained, but there's something off as he says, "It's not just you he's trying to protect." Light. Lilting. Disguised as a joke, but with that cryptic edge that makes a shiver run down his spine.

"What'd you mean?" He asks, but he knows exactly what Lance is implying. So he amends his question before he can get another frustratingly vague fey answer. "Why would Shiro be protective of you? You're a high fey. You're... more powerful than he is, aren't you?" They've never said it aloud, but they've given him enough pieces of the puzzle to draw conclusions.

Lance nods, head bobbing from side to side. "I suppose I am, in a way, but... you're as dangerous to me as I am to you."

Keith stops, forcing Lance to turn to him. His eyes narrow, searching Lance's beneath the thin privacy of their shared umbrella. He finds... honesty. A weariness. Hidden behind wry amusement. "You've said that before, but you never told me why." He lifts his chin, lips pursed. "You said that I was dangerous to you specifically. Why? I... I wouldn't hurt you."

It leaves his lungs in a rush, tasting like the truth on his tongue and wrapping tight around his lungs with the vulnerability of it.

But Lance only smiles, reaching out to trace his fingers along the curve of Keith's temple, tucking hair behind his ear before idly running a fingertip over the ear cuff Keith has taken to wearing. He taps his nail against the gemstone, lips quirked into a smile, a laugh on his tongue as he says, "And do you think something as simple as that has ever stopped Shiro from worrying?"

It's a deflection, and he knows it.

But there's something in Lance's eyes. A tension at the corners of his smile. Begging Keith to let it go. Pleading with him not to press.

And because Keith is weak to him, unable to say no to this mischievous fey that's blown into his life like a northern wind and awakened something in his chest, he does. He lets it go. For now.

Lets Lance take his hand once more and drag him down the street towards Shay's Cafe as they pretend the conversation never happened.

* * *

He wakes from a nightmare with his knife in his hand.

He jerks, ending up half sitting up, blankets clutched to his chest with one hand. The other prickles and stings, and he can feel the familiar hilt of his dagger clutched tight in aching fingers. His heart hammers in a rapid staccato, breath coming short and shallow as fire burns through his veins, simmering and boiling just below his skin.

The bundle of magic that lives in his core is unfurled, bloomed, energy coiling through him and coming off of him in waves of heat.

Eyes wide and wild, unfocused as they dart around his room, desperate to find the danger he can't comprehend but his body seems certain is there—

_A building— collapsed— dust in the air, thick and choking— rubble everywhere— panic gripping his chest tight and a whimpered cry for help—_

_Fire in his hand, a dagger in his grip— a clash— a blur of movement— searing pain across his jaw and cheek— rage in his veins— jaw aching as he clenches his teeth—_

_Yellow eyes— blue eyes— silver eyes— gemstones flashing and swirling— Blood. Blood everywhere. The smell of it thick and acidic on his tongue— his own bile— burning in his eyes, on his cheek, on his chest—_

_Shiro— Shiro?— Shiro!_

_Blue eyes— swirling and cloudy— glowing like moonstones— piercing like ice— filled with tears— hands gentle and warm, shaking as nails bite into his flesh— the smell of salt and rain and ash—_

The dream fades. The more he tries to remember, the faster it disperses like smoke. He tries to grab it, to hold onto it, but the visions fade. Details go first. Then visual. Until he's left with flashes of color, of action, of smells and sounds and pain— until those fade, too.

Until he's left sitting up in his bed, heart pounding and breath ragged, left with nothing but the sense of fear and panic and frustration that his nightmare had left lingering.

It's not the first time he's had a nightmare like that, but it's the first time in a while.

And as his nightmare fades, as his awareness starts to gain a firmer grip on reality, he finds that his chest still hurts. Just like it always does after his reoccurring nightmares. Tight and constricting, but more than that. A _burn_. A singeing of flesh and muscle and bone, burning right down to his heart, wrapping around it like a fist determined to squeeze the life out of him.

He lets out a shaky breath, sitting up more fully and loosening his grip on his dagger. He lets the magic go slowly, releasing his aching fingers so the dagger can dematerialize, sinking back into his palm and settling back in his forearm, skin prickling and stinging, familiar but unpleasant all the same.

He frowns, idly rubbing his forearm as the sensation starts to disperse. He closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing as he urges his magic back into his core, but it's a far more difficult task than it normally is. Unrestrained and sizzling through his veins like a live wire, awakened and set alight by his mind's panic and his body's subconscious instinct to fight.

He lets out another sigh, already resigning himself to the fact that he'll have to take a cold shower. It always been the quickest way to get his body to calm down and his magic to recede.

A wet nose presses to his cheek, drawing him out of his thoughts as a whine follows. He opens his eyes to find Kosmo hovering over him, awake and worried. He smiles, small and tired, as he reaches up to cup the wolf's face, running his fingers through his fur. "Hey, buddy. It's okay. I'm okay."

Kosmo's tail wags, tongue dragging up the side of Keith's face as he laughs, pulling away and attempting to hold back the wolf. But Kosmo is strong, and he puts a paw to Keith's chest, pushing him down to attack his face.

By the time Keith manages to wiggle out from under him and slip from the bed, the ache in his chest has dimmed. It's still there, throbbing vaguely, but it no longer burns and the vice-like grip on his lungs has loosened. He pads to the bathroom, opening doors and pushing them closed as silently as he can. It's not uncommon for him to wake in the middle of the night, but he still doesn't want to bother Shiro if he can help it.

Bathroom door shut, he turns to walk towards the shower. A yawn stretches his lips, eyes squinting shut as he idly rubs at his chest through his shirt. That strange burning sensation lingers, but he just chalks it up to being a side effect of his magic unleashing all at once.

He turns on the water, pulling the tab to shift it from tub to shower-head before reaching behind him, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. He half turns, tossing it to the counter when his eyes catch on the mirror—

Something on his chest. Thick black lines standing out against the pale expanse of his skin. Hair a strange color, even in the darkness, and his eyes—

But as he looks at the mirror straight on, there's nothing.

His chest is a smooth, pale expanse. His eyes are as dark as they always are. His hair black as pitch.

He frowns, lips pursing as he leans forward. His fingers press against his sternum, following the curve of his collarbones across his chest, trying to feel for any abnormalities that his eyes can't catch. His skin—his chest— burns beneath his touch, prickles and aches, but he sees nothing. He tilts his head from side to side, trying to see himself from all angles, but— nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but the same visage he sees every day.

He shakes his head, turning from the mirror to slip out of his boxers and step into the shower.

The cold water clears his head. Forces him back to reality and chases the remnants of his nightmare away. Because that must have been all it was. Remnants of his nightmares. His sleep and panic addled mind playing tricks on him. Making him see things in the darkness.

Because for a moment— just a moment— he could have sworn he had seen a tattoo on his chest.

A seven pointed star with wings.

* * *

Keith shouldn't be here, and he knows it.

But he is. From the moment the idea came to him, just a fleeting and innocent thought that sank in and took root, he hasn't been able to shake it. Despite knowing he shouldn't. Despite telling himself it's a bad idea. Despite the voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Shiro. Despite knowing that a year ago, he would've considered such an idea to be insane.

But a lot of things have changed.

 _Lance_ has changed him. In subtle ways that he can't always pinpoint but feels all the same.

He hasn't decided yet if it's a good thing or a bad thing.

But either way, that's how he finds himself here. Crouched with Kosmo on a web of wide tree branches several feet into the thick canopy of the wild forest. Through breaks in the leaves, he can see the faerie ring. They're close enough that he can feel the hum of its energy buzzing like static across his skin.

Kosmo shifts restlessly at his side, and he keeps one arm around him, fingers dug deep in his fur and scratching behind his ears to calm him. On one hand, he's almost surprised about how easy it was to command Kosmo to blink them up into the tree. But on the other hand, he's not surprised at all. Kosmo is no ordinary wolf, and he's seen him blink into trees before to chase birds.

He doesn't know if Kosmo knows why they're here, but he crouches low at Keith's side, eyes locked on the faerie ring while they wait.

And they wait for what feels like hours. Poised and on high alert, both of them kept wary by the fluctuating magic in the air around them. Despite what they're here for, they're on enemy territory, and he refuses to let himself forget that. He may have been reckless enough to be here in the first place, but that doesn't mean he has to be stupid about it.

They wait as his legs start to feel stiff and sore, but he doesn't dare loosen his posture. They wait so long that he starts to consider the foolishness of this plan. He wonders if maybe Lance had taken another faerie ring, but— no, because Keith would have received a text or call if he was already back in the mortal realm.

So they continue to wait.

A couple fey pass by below. A few smaller fey who scurry along the path and headlong into the faerie ring before Keith can get a good look. Another fey comes through the ring, glamour thick as it clings to him, making him less bulky, less hairy, and less horned than his fey form. He walks slower, and Keith's grip in Kosmo's fur tightens, breath caught in his throat as he waits— ready to order Kosmo to blink the moment the fey notices them— but he doesn't. He passes by without a single glance upward. And Keith allows himself a breath of relief.

He's on the verge of deciding to cut his losses and head home when the faerie ring crackles once more.

He stiffens, eyes snapping to the ring of rocks and toadstools atop the barren hill. He can feel the surge of energy, can taste it on his tongue and feel it flit across his skin, causing his hair to stand on end. He holds his breath, fingers tightening in Kosmo's fur as he waits—

He fades into existence. Stepping from one realm to another. From the invisible into the seen. Bleeding into existence with that one step. From nothing to a solid body. Dressed in well fitting jeans, a shirt that stretches tight across broad shoulders only to fall loose over a narrow waist, and a familiar baggy jacket.

A rush of chilled air, rolling over his skin like a playful caress.

Keith feels the grin ache in his cheeks before he's even realized he's smiling.

 _Lance_.

At his side, he hears a soft whine, eager and complaining against staying still. The brush of a tail against nearby leaves.

" _Shhh_..." He whispers. "Hold."

Lance walks down the hill without looking back, hand digging around in the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out his phone, eyes downcast as he types at the screen. Keith can feel the resonating vibration of several incoming texts in his pocket, but he ignores it. Eyes locked on the fey as he makes his way down the hill, toward the path that leads into town, beneath where he and Kosmo are perched.

Keith grins as Lance passes, seeing the flash of the text screen on his phone and the small purse of Lance's impatient frown.

Then he stops. Several yards beyond where Keith and Kosmo hide. His back is to them, but Keith can see him stiffen, head shooting up. He turns his head slowly, gazing sidelong at the trees for a moment before taking a step back and turning further, chin lifting as his eyes roam up towards the branches—

" _Now,"_ Keith breathes, and feels the sudden rush of sensation sinking into his bones like lightning, hot and cold all at once, mind going black and blank as he feels the brief moment of weightlessness.

And then all at once, everything comes back.

The weightlessness remains for a moment as they hover in the air a split second before gravity takes hold. He sees the path below them. Lance turning, eyes wide and mouth falling open as he takes in Keith and Kosmo hovering above him.

And then they're falling, crashing into the fey who barely manages to catch Keith before his balance is tipped and they both fall backwards. Lance's back hits the ground first, a startled sound escaping him that's cut off as the air rushes from his lungs once Keith lands on top of him. Echoing groans escape them both as Kosmo lands atop them both, crushing them into the earth.

"In the name of Mother Summer," Lance wheezes, eyes dazed as they stare up at the sky.

Thankfully, Kosmo doesn't stay atop them for long. He hops off, dancing around them on light feet as he sniffs at Lance's face, licking a long wet stripe that makes the hair at his temple stand on end.

"Oh my— _Kosmo_ —" He curls in on himself, half ducking behind Keith's head to hide from the wolf's affections. "Missed you, too, buddy, but— stop— _stop!_ Keith! Control your wolf!"

Keith chuckles, propping himself up on one elbow as he reaches out his other hand to push Kosmo away. "Kosmo, down." The wolf does as he's told, sitting back and watching the two of them, tail swishing behind him.

"What're you doing here?" Lance asks as Keith sits back on Lance's lap, straddling his thighs and giving the fey enough room to sit up. He props himself up with one arm behind him, rubbing the back of his head with the other. He looks bewildered, brows furrowed and lips pursed as his head tilts to the side.

Keith shrugs, hands resting in front of him, fingers idly fiddling with the hem of Lance's shirt. "You said you would be returning today around midday, so I thought I'd... surprise you?"

"Consider me surprised," Lance breathes, a smile slowly creeping across his lips. A spark of excitement in his eyes chases away the confusion, though can't fully hide his worry. He reaches forward, cupping Keith's face between his palms. "You're an idiot, you know," he says, voice painfully fond. "It's _dangerous_ for you here. What if someone had seen you?"

He shrugs, using the movement to mask the way he leans into Lance's touch. "I have Kosmo with me. We were ready to blink out of here the moment anyone spotted us."

Lance huffs, eyes narrowing as he purses his lips in a mockery of something stern, his smile still tugging at the edges of his mouth. "Reckless. Hotheaded. Stubborn," he mumbles. His hands slide down the curve of Keith's neck, fingers leaves trails of fire in their wake. His hands move down over his shoulder, dragging over his collarbones to ease down his chest, sliding around his waist until they rest comfortably there. "Was it really worth risking everything just to see me an hour sooner?"

His smile is easing into a smirk, lopsided and smug, teasing and mischievous. It _does things_ to Keith's insides. Twists them up and sparks a heat that settles low and churning in his gut. Makes his body feel tingly and over sensitive where ever they touch.

His hands slide up Lance's chest of their own accord, forearms settling over his shoulders and fingers idly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Keith hums for a moment, tips purse and head tilted, feigning thought before saying, "Yes."

He's not sure if it's the truth or a lie. He's not sure if he means it. He doesn't want to think about it too much. Isn't sure he'll like the answer.

But it makes Lance smile all the same, makes his eyes crinkle at the corners with it, and that's all he wanted.

"Miss me that much?"

"Yes." This time there's no hesitancy, and he knows without a doubt that it's the truth.

He feels... emptier when Lance isn't around. He grew used to feeling that strange, dark hollow in his chest. Barely noticed it anymore. Until Lance waltzed into his life and ignited something in him. Make that strange void echo and pulse with— with _something_. Makes him feel more _alive_.

And now whenever Lance is gone, there's a noticeable difference.

It's similar to the feeling he gets whenever Pidge goes on a family vacation. Or the feeling whenever Shiro leaves for a long weekend trip. Similar, but different. More concentrated. More intense. Tugging at strings connected to his heart that he's forgotten exist. That were gathering rust until Lance came around.

Lance is... special. Special to _him_. And he's not sure why yet, but he plans on finding out.

Something passes across Lance's face. Something that lingers and swirls in the depths of his multifaceted eyes. But before Keith can name it, Lance is surging forward, and Keith's world narrows down to the warm press of Lance's lips.

Soft as he remembers them. Firm and eager as he tilts his head, sliding their lips together at the perfect angle. His arms tighten around Keith's waist, fingers splaying wide as they move up his spine. Keith clings to his shoulders, falling into him, a soft sound escaping his throat as Lance pulls him closer, until their chests are nearly flush.

The kiss is a gentle push and pull. Pressing together, capturing each other's lips, leaning into the contact, only to pull apart just a breaths width before diving in to do it again. Every angle is better than the last. The caress of Lance's breath against his cheeks makes him dizzy. The warmth from his body and roaming hands making his blood boil, skin over sensitizes as he yearns for skin to skin contact.

When Lance's tongue slips past his lips, Keith eagerly responds in kind, fingers tugging at Lance's hair and holding him firmly in place. A sound rumbles deep in his throat, but he's far too lost to recognize whether it's a moan or a growl. Either way, he feels the soft puffs of air against his cheeks as Lance laughs through his nose without breaking their kiss.

Lance is honey sweet, rich and dark. Filling his senses and dizzying his mind. So much— too much— not enough. He _burns_ for more. Feels the flames inside him licking at his skin, reaching for Lance, fueled by him, burning so hot that the chill in the air can't touch them—

And then Lance pulls away, leaving Keith reeling as the cold air rushes in, startling against his heated flesh. He blinks, eyes lidded and unfocused as he tries to find Lance's lips one more but—

But Lance is turned away, looking over his shoulder, back down the path towards the faerie ring.

Movement at his side draws his attention, Kosmo crouching on all fours, hair on his back standing on end, eyes following Lance's and a soft growl in his throat.

That's when he feels it.

The hum and crackle of energy.

He can't see the faerie ring clearly from this angle, but he can definitely feel it. The air in the forest comes alive as the portal is used. Snapping like static across his skin. Making his hair stand on end. Body tensing as adrenaline floods his system in a sudden fight-or-flight—

Then Lance is moving, snapping him out of his startled haze. One arm wraps tight around his waist as the other flings out, hand sinking into Kosmo's fur and gripping tight. The wolf's eyes snap to his, blue gaze hard as steel and lips pursed into a thin line.

Kosmo must understand, because the feeling of being displaced rushes over him instantly. Hot and cold. Overwhelming. Blinding and deafening to his senses, weightless as there's suddenly nothing.

And then they're dropping back to the ground.

Lance rolls out from under him, and Keith snaps into a defensive crouch, eyes darting around as he takes quick assessment of their surroundings and tries to get his bearings.

They're not too far away from the path they had just been on. Off to the side and deep in the forest. Shrouded by trees and hidden by bushes. Kosmo remains at his side, leaning into him, and Keith lays a hand on his shoulder, for Kosmo's comfort as well as grounding himself. Lance crawls forward, silent as smoke as he reaches forward, gingerly pulling back the twisted and horned branches of shrubbery, the plant life practically bending to his will before he truly touches it.

Keith crawls forward, practically pressed to Lance's back as he gazes over his shoulder, through the narrow gap in the trees to where the faerie ring lies.

The hill is no longer empty.

A fey stands just outside the ring of stones and toadstools. Tall and willowy. They wear long robes, but they don't fill them out, making their body obscure as smoke. Long, clawed hands peek out from the flared sleeves, but the robe curls at the ground without exposing feet. A hood is pulled up, and the head that pokes out is almost bird-like in appearance. Long and slender. Pointed. White as bone. Thick shadow beneath that makes Keith wonder if it's really the fey's face or a mask.

He doesn't realize the air is noticeably colder until he shivers, feeling the ice slither down his spine. He leans further into Lance, seeking his warmth, and it's only then that he notices how stiff he is.

"Lance?" He whispers, barely a breath. The rest of his question is unspoken but certainly there: _are you okay?_

The shake of Lance's head is nearly imperceptible. His brows are furrowed, lips pursed into a deep frown. "Winter court," he mutters.

Keith shivers again, body tense as he looks back to the fey, waiting for them to leave, but— they don't move. Standing atop the hill, they turn slowly. Not so much confused or uncertain, but... but _searching_.

"They're following me..." Lance whispers, voice harsh with venom that Keith has never heard. "They know I'm up to something, and they're following me."

"Why would they follow you?" Keith mutters, leaning in close to keep his voice close to Lance's ear. His eyes never leave the searching fey. "Why would they care? You're not in the winter court."

"I'm Allura's favorite. I'm standing in the way of Lotor courting her, and his mom doesn't like that. She'd do anything to make her son king of both courts. That includes following me to figure out my weaknesses. Anything she can use against me to get me out of the way.“ He turns then, but not to Keith. His gaze snaps to the wolf at his side. "Kosmo, get him out of here."

"What? _No_ ," he sputters, hand coming down on Lance's arm and gripping tight. Lance's eyes snap to his, hard as steel, swirling with a storm of ice. But there's a fire burning beneath the hardened expression. A carefully controlled fire that Keith has never seen in him before. He's seen many sides of Lance: playful, mischievous, melancholy, thoughtful. Hell, he's even seen the courtly indifferent mask.

But he's never seen rage before.

He's never seen _fear_.

Genuine, uninhibited _fear_.

It makes his stomach clench, lungs tight as his own panic starts to settle in. Still, he doesn't look away. Holds Lance's gaze with a fire of his own. Stubborn. Reckless. Hotheaded. Just like Lance says he is. "I'm not going anywhere."

Lance's frown deepens, his own hand coming down on Keith's and prying it from his arm. " _Yes_ ," he says firmly. "You _are_ "

Keith clutches at his hand. "I'm not leaving you alone." Not when he's in danger. Not with that fey lurking. Not when Keith can protect him—

"You can't protect me."

"I _can_ —"

"I won't let you—"

"What're you so afraid of—"

" _That they'll take you away from me._ " Keith’s breath catches, heart stuttering and body tensing at the intensity in Lance's eyes. At the fury in his voice. His grip is bruising as he clutches Keith's hand to his chest. He holds Keith's gaze for a long moment, hard and unyielding, _daring_ him to challenge him. Then, slowly, his eyes soften. His frown lifts into a small, wry smile. He lifts Keith's hand to his lips, pressing them to his knuckles as he still holds Keith's gaze. Eyes still afraid, still angry, but painfully, _achingly_ fond as he whispers across Keith's fingers, "I won't let them find you."

And then he's thrusting Keith's hand away, pressing it to Kosmo's side, sinking it into his fur and curling his fingers around Keith's to force his grip.

"Get him out of here, Kosmo," he snaps.

" _Lance_ —"

But Lance has already pulled his hand away, and Keith feels the tug of Kosmo's blink before he can pull back.

The last image of those beautiful blue eyes, intense and swirling and _aching_ , is imprinted in Keith's mind as the sensation of nothingness overtakes him.

* * *

**Lance**  
> I'll be gone for a few more days  
> I need to throw these fey off my trail  
> I'm doubling back into the fey realm  
> I'll text you as soon as I'm back  
> Please be safe

* * *

It's been several days since Keith last heard from Lance, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't worried. He knows he's not doing a great job at hiding it. His worry and paranoia are at an all time high, making him restless and antsy. He's mad at Lance for sending him away, and he's frustrated with himself for not being able to _do anything_.

Lance is out there being followed by winter court fey, manipulated and jabbed at by his own court, and preyed upon by people looking to socially climb, and he's stuck here twiddling his thumbs and doing _nothing_. Lance is staying away, doing who the fuck knows what in order to protect Keith, and there's nothing Keith can do.

He's never felt so useless, and he doesn't fucking like it.

He doesn't like sitting here idle while people he cares about are in danger.

While people take care of shit to protect him.

He's not a child anymore.

Shiro's been training him for _years_ , and what's the point if he's not allowed to protect the people he loves?

And he's not the only one who's worried. He ended up telling the others after Pidge called him out for snapping at everyone one too many times. Shiro and Hunk had taken the news with infuriatingly blank but grim expressions, but he could tell from the tension that they were just as worried as he feels. Pidge had been a ball of righteous fury, and for a moment he thought she might march into the fey realm herself and challenge the whole of the winter court.

And for a moment, he was pretty sure she'd win.

Still, they tell him there's nothing they can do but wait.

So that's why he's here, sitting on the back porch in one of the deck chairs, glaring miserably at the fire burning in the brick fire pit Shiro had made years ago. One elbow resting on the arm of the chair, cheek resting against his fist. A beer bottle hangs idly between the fingers of his other hand, dangling off the other armrest. Legs splayed and stretched, back slumped.

Pidge would say he's moping.

Shiro would say he's pouting.

Good thing neither of them are here right now to rub it in. Just him and Kosmo, who curls up next to his chair, soaking in the warmth from the fire. Pidge is busy, and Shiro is out. Probably with Adam. It's fine. He's fine here, by himself. He's not really alone when he has Kosmo, and he's fine to just sit here and... wait.

Part of him desperately hopes Lance will make his way into the backyard to surprise him.

Another part of him hates himself for hoping.

When he finally does feel the telltale prickle at the back of his neck, the instinctual feeling of being watched and the prickling beneath his skin that always tells him when a fey is nearby, it's not accompanied by the playful chill that he's hoping for.

It's a rush of warm, dry wind. Hot like a desert gust that feels like sand across his skin. It brings with it the crackle of electricity. Static charged in the air. A deep rumble of distant thunder announces an on coming storm, not heard but _felt_. The smell of rain. Of moisture in a high heat.

His eyes widen as the wind rolls over him, watching at it tugs at the flames in the fire pit and briefly builds them higher, logs crackling and splitting.

"Are you Keith?"

He whips around, standing quickly enough that the chair clatters to the ground, followed by the sound of his beer bottle shattering on the stone.

He stands on the porch, heat of the fire to his back and Kosmo standing at his side, half curled around him and hackles raised. Keith's right hand is held out, fingers curled. The mark on his forearm _burns_. It itches beneath his skin, a sharp pain that prickles and crawls down his wrist, sharp where his blade presses beneath the skin of his palm, _aching_ to be released.

Before him stands a fey. A woman. Tall and proud. Lithe but strong. One arm hangs, her other hand on the hip that's cocked to the side. Her skin is brown, and her features are sharp, glamour only softening them enough to make them more human. It shimmers high on her cheekbones, on her ears, and in her hair. Her clothes cover much of her body, simple but regal and definitely not modern. If he had to guess from that alone, he'd say she isn't used to visiting the mortal realm.

She stares at him, unblinking, eyes sharp and hard and swirling. Blues and grays. Ocean and steel. They shift and move, colors dipping and shifting, like Lance and Shiro's eyes tend to do.

He doesn't pick up any open hostility from her, but there's an intensity radiating from her that puts him on edge.

"Who wants to know?" He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. The last thing he needs to do is offend an unfamiliar fey by being rude, but he can't quite help the sharp cut of his words.

Her eyes drag down his form, taking in his loose t-shirt, sweat pants, and bare feet before snapping back to his face. Her expression hasn't changed, but he gets the feeling she's not impressed. "I'm Lance's sister. You can call me Veronica."

He blinks, posture straightening a fraction as one eyebrow shoots upward. Lance's... sister...?

Now that he's looking closer... yeah, he can definitely see some of the resemblance. In her features and in the places where her glamour is thickest. Her skin is a slightly different shade, and her eyes are a different hue, but... there's something about her that... yeah, he can see her being related to Lance.

Not to mention she had said it point blank, and fey can't lie. So he has no reason to doubt her.

He allows himself to relax, if only slightly, eyeing her with slight suspicion and mounting confusion. Lance has never mentioned anything about his family. "Why're you here?"

"Lance wants you to know that he's fine, but he can't make it back just yet. He said you'd be worrying about him."

Keith stiffens, scowl pinching his features as he fights the heat creeping up his neck. "I wasn't worried." His voice is even, but just a fraction too defensive.

He sees her mask start to crack, the corner of her lips tugging up into a small smirk, and— yeah, when she does that, he can definitely tell she's related to Lance. "He also told me you'd deny it." Her smile fades, falling once more into intense indifference. "But that's not the only reason I'm here. I also wanted to see you for myself."

Keith's chest feels tight, a chill of dread seeping down his spine despite the heat of the fire behind him. It casts a glow dancing across Veronica's skin, emphasizing the sharpness of her features and the shadows in her eyes.

"Why?" He asks, chin lifting. Challenging.

She doesn't waver. "To understand why he would risk everything to see you."

"As long as the courts don't know, it's fine." His frown deepens. "It's more of a risk to me than him, isn't it?"

A flicker of surprise dances across her features, smoothing out her glare as one eyebrow rises. "You don't know about the prophecy, do you?" He blinks, staring at her blankly. Her lips purse, brows pinching as she says, "Our grandmother has the gift of foresight. When Lance was born, she had a vision. She said that he would rise far and bring honor to our family, but an ironblood would be his downfall."

"I would never hurt Lance," he says, quick and sharp, heart hammering in his ears.

Her eyes narrow, lips tight as she says, "Ironbloods can lie. A promise from you means nothing."

His hands curl into fists, nails biting painfully into his palms. His dagger cuts sharply just below the skin. His blood _burns_ , flames in his chest stoked and unfurling in a bloom of rage. He's moving before he makes the decision to, stomping forward on bare feet, off the porch and into the yard.

He doesn't stop until he's mere inches from her, standing toe to toe. He can feel the heat radiating from him. Can feel the sickening boil and crawl of his blood bubbling in his veins, itching to be released, itching to reach out to hers and command it as his own.

He meets her narrowed gaze head on, refusing to back down as he hisses between clenched teeth, "I. Would _never_. Hurt Lance."

She doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. He can feel a crackle coming off of her. A rumble deep beneath his feet. A moisture in the air that smells like rain and smoke, carrying electricity. Her eyes swirl like storm clouds. Her words clipped and sharp, pointed and jagged. "Every time he comes here, he puts himself in danger and you at risk. It's selfish and reckless. All because he's drawn to you—"

" _No,_ " He snaps. "It's not just me."

She gives him a long, flat stare. A huff of a scoff that crackles with dry heat. "You expect me to believe that? You're all he ever talks about anymore."

"It's not just because of me," he repeats, voice pitched low. She waits, eyes narrowed and suspicious. He takes a step back, closing his eyes briefly as he takes a deep breath to steady himself. He forces himself to relax, first with his jaw, then his shoulders, loosening his arms until his hands unclench.

_Patience yields focus._

With a frustrated sigh, he meets her gaze once more, unflinching. "It's not just me. It's Shiro. It's Pidge, and Hunk, and Shay. He has friends here who are _actually_ his friends. People who like him for exactly who he is, and not who they want to mold him to be. People who like his company and aren't just watching him like sharks waiting for him to slip up. He comes here because he's _happy_ here. He's _free_ here. He doesn't have to worry about things here, and he can just... relax. He can do the things he wants to do. I've never seen him happy when talking about the court. Have you?"

She takes a moment to answer. Takes a moment to look him over, eyes narrowed but with a new sort of appreciation gracing her features. He wouldn't go so far as to call it approval, but somewhere in the ballpark of respect. "No," she finally says. "I haven't."

She turns her head then, gaze drifting off to the side, looking over the plants that line their backyard, twisted in shadow and wild as nature. There's a pinch to her features. A frown on her lips. She looks like she's thinking, but when she looks back to him, he sees nothing but determination glinting in her eyes.

Whatever decision she came to, she's already made it.

"We weren't always court fey, you know." Her tone is different. Lighter. More conversational than she's been since she arrived.

"I, uh..." He blinks, tilting his head and eyeing her suspiciously, not quite sure what to make of the sudden change. "No. I didn't know that."

She nods, arms folding over her chest as she tilts her head back, eyes on the stars as she looks thoughtful and sounds distant. "Our grandparents left the courts to start a family together. We were born and raised as wild fey. Under the general rule of the summer court, but separate from it. Until Lance. He became friends with the princess, and their friendship brought power and prestige to our family. But only Lance and I live at court. I think... I think he misses it. The freedom of our childhood. He was forced to change went he went to court. It does that to you." She looks at him then, eyes calculating but warmer than they were moments ago. Her lips are pursed, thoughtful and wary, but no longer unkind. "I think he feels like he's lost part of himself, and you remind him of who he likes to be."

She smiles then. Small and secretive. There's a mischievous mirth that dances in her eyes beneath the storm, and for a brief moment, Keith wonders how he didn't see her resemblance to Lance right away.

"I can see why he keeps coming back here," she says as she reaches into her folds of her clothes, pulling out a familiar, pristine blue forget-me-not. She holds it out, a smile on her lips that actually reaches her eyes. "He told me to give this to you."

Keith reaches out automatically, focus on the flower and the way the sight of it twists up his insides, taking his breath away and making his stomach flutter.

He takes the flower, holding it gingerly between his fingers. But then Veronica grabs him, quick as lightning, snatching his wrist with her hand and gripping tight. Her nails bite into his skin, and his eyes snap to hers. Her smile is still in place, but there's a sharp edge to it. That overwhelming intensity back in her eyes as she pins him with her stare.

"Don't hurt my brother."

It's a warning.

It's a plea.

She lets his wrist go and steps away from him, holding his gaze as she sinks back away from the golden glow of the fire and into the shadows of the night. Her eyes glow, dim and steel blue.

A rush of wind hits him straight on. Hot and dry, crackling with electricity and bringing the taste of rain on his tongue.

He blinks, and she's gone.

* * *

Lance's forget-me-nots are a thing of beauty. Perfect and pristine. A beautiful sky blue of several subtle hues. A white star. Solid yellow center. Each petal is smooth as silk and identically shaped. All of them bending forward just a fraction, as if reaching for him.

They never bend. Never break. Never wither. They shine in the sun and never wilt. Part of him thinks that even if he tried to pluck the petals, they wouldn't tear. That the flower will remain as perfect as glass.

He knows they're grown from fey magic, but he's not sure if it's a _fey_ thing or a _Lance_ thing. He's certainly never seen Shiro randomly disposing flowers, but that doesn't mean he can't.

Maybe he does it around Adam.

Because he and Adam are together like Keith and Lance...

They're together right? They've never explicitly talked about it, but he's pretty certain there's something between them. The way they kiss. The way they touch. The way Lance looks at him and the way he lingers... there's something between them. Something that makes Keith weak at the knees and light in the chest. Makes his stomach flutter and his blood run hot. Plucks all the strings around his heart and resonates deep within that strange numb void in his core...

It's an itch.

One that he can't seem to scratch. One that's only alleviated when Lance is around, like a balm that helps him forget. But Lance hasn't been around for nearly a week, and that itch is getting worse. Getting more insistent. Getting _infuriating_.

It's beneath his skin, crawling and shivering. It's the way his lungs occasionally spasm when he thinks of Lance, breath hitching in his throat. It's a bone-deep ache in his chest that won't go away, both hurting and yearning. It's a vibration he feels, making him light and overwhelmingly _happy_. But strange, so strange, because nothing has ever made him feel so high.

It's a writhing in the back of his mind. Flashes of things he can't grasp. Slipping through his fingers and dissipating. Fading to shadow and smoke as soon as he focuses on them.

An itch.

A memory he can't grasp.

A thought lost before it can form.

He doesn't know if it's something Lance has said, or if it was something Veronica said. Maybe it's just that he's been spending so much time with Lance. Maybe it was the fear in Lance's eyes as he sent Keith away. Maybe it's just that he hasn't seen him in a while and he's worried.

Either way, the itch has been getting worse.

Bad enough that he's irritable. He's frustrated. He can't sleep and his nightmares are coming back. They plague him every night. The skin of his arms are streaked with red from where he's been absently scratching.

He groans, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling rather than the forget-me-nots gathered on his nightstand. He scowls, running his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands until it hurts— and his hair catches on the ear cuff.

The ear cuff that he found in the—

He's off the bed in a second, rolling onto the floor and pulling the metal box out from under his bed. He's not sure where this new sense of urgency comes from. It's sudden, spiking adrenaline through his system, but whenever he tries to figure out why, it starts to fade—

So he goes with the instinct, already able to tell this is just another thing his mind refuses to grasp.

And his instinct says— open the box.

He sits against his bed, cross legged with the box in front of him. He shouldn't be hesitating, but he is. There's a sense of dread welling up in him. Cold and tight, coiling through his chest and squeezing, choking. Goosebumps rise on his skin, and his breath comes short and quick.

He doesn't know why he's panicking. He doesn't know why apprehension digs its claws in deep, piercing through him and making his hands shake. He shouldn't be afraid of this box. He's opened it before. He _knows_ what's inside. He shouldn't be feeling... _whatever_ this is.

But he is.

And he wants to know why.

His hands rattle against the latch as he flips it open, throwing the lid back and recoiling as if burned, but—

The contents are exactly as he remembers. Innocent and unchanged. Yet the sight of them stirs up a cacophony of emotions inside that strange void, echoing out to resonate through his chest, far too dissonant to comprehend.

He pulls the stuffed red lion out first, turning it over in his hands. There's nothing out of the ordinary about it. A lion, colored red. Yet there's a warmth that radiates from his chest, pushing his lips into a small smile. It's... cute. He has vague memories of having it when he was in his teens, but can't quite remember where he got it.

But he's... pretty sure he used to hug it at night when nightmares plagued him...

He carefully sets the red lion on his bed before turning back to the box.

He pulls out the pile of old polaroids next, flipping through them. They're not well done. Half of them are over exposed or too dark. Most are blurred on the edges from a finger. The colors are faded, but... there's a sense of nostalgia as he looks through them.

Trees and hills and woods that... look like any other forest, to be completely honest, but... there's something familiar about these ones. A creek. A pond. A sunset. Several of an old, collapsed building.

A faerie ring.

Not the one Lance uses, but another. Smaller. Made entirely of mushrooms and nestled into a thicket of trees.

His heart hammers in his chest as he flips to the last photograph. He can tell that it's a selfie. A close up of faces. An arm extending off screen. But it's far too overexposed, their faces and features lost to a blur of white. He can only tell one of the two people is him because of his unruly mop of dark hair.

He stares at the person taking the picture, something twisting unpleasantly in his chest as he tries to make out the features—

He sets them aside.

He grabs for the dream journal. It's not full. Only about twenty or so entries. He flips through them, half the time unable to even make out his messy, half-asleep handwriting. The entries are incoherent at best. Messy sentences half formed, frantic and sporadic in detail. But... there's something wholly familiar about them.

They remind him of his recent nightmares. The reoccurring ones. He sees similar imagery repeated. Blood. yellow eyes. A giant, hulking figure. A cut on his cheek and a burn in his chest. Shiro— Shiro bleeding— Shiro missing an arm—

But not all the entries are about nightmares. Some are pleasant dreams. Of magical forest landscapes and patchwork settings slapped together from bits and pieces of memories.

Most of them feature a boy. His age. With dark skin and blue eyes and a pretty smile—

He tosses the book aside, reaching for the gameboy with shaking hands.

It's a gameboy color. Red. And when he flips it around, he can see that Pokemon Blue is already loaded up inside. He flips the power switch, surprised when the batteries still work.

The images on the screen are familiar. Welcoming. Nostalgic in a way that reminds him of simpler times and games that hold a dear place in his heart. The warmth of it eases his rattled nerves, calming his rapid heartbeat and allowing him to breathe a little easier.

He loads up the save file, and—

The trainer's name is Lance.

His stomach rolls, churning uncomfortably as his gut clenches.

" _Fuck,_ " he hisses, turning off the gameboy and dropping it into his lap, already reaching for the last few pieces of paper littering the bottom of the box.

His chest feels tight.

His palms are sweating beneath his gloves.

But as he picks them up, he freezes, eyes fixing on what was beneath them.

There, resting innocently against the shiny bottom of the metal box, is a pristine blue forget-me-not.

His heart hammers against his ribs, painful and dizzying. His pulse is all he can hear, ears ringing. He holds his breath, hands shaking as he unfolds the papers. They're all uneven at the edges, torn from a sketchbook.

He's always had an affinity for art. For sketching realism specifically. It's allowed him an easy transition into being a tattoo artist. When he was younger, he used to practice by sketching people around him. Sitting in public places and drawing people he saw. Drawing friends and Shiro and Kosmo. But one of his older sketchbooks, one that he had in high school when Shiro adopted him, has several torn pages that he doesn't remember ripping out—

Lance's face stares back at him from the pages.

Sketchy and done quickly. Distorted a little in some. None of his features are perfect. Like Keith hadn't been able to hold a clear image in his mind. They're also old, clearly before he'd managed to perfect his craft, but...

But they're clearly Lance.

Lance smiling. Lance pouting. Lance laughing. Lance staring into the distance.

Distorted and done quickly and unfinished, sketchy and unrefined, but... but Keith would recognize him anywhere.

It's Lance.

It's... Lance.

* * *

Lance is waiting for him outside the subway station. At the top of the steps. Off to the side. Jacket open. One hand in his pocket. The other holding his umbrella. It leans against his shoulder.

He leans back, head tilted to face the sky. The umbrella is at such an angle that it barely provides any coverage. Not that Lance seems to mind.

His eyes are closed. Long lashes dusting across high cheekbones, glittering with raindrops that cling to his skin and the diamond dust of his glamour beneath. He shimmers and shines. Lips relaxed but curved at the edges, tugging up into the ghost of a smile.

He's wet, but he doesn't seem to mind the rain. He revels in it. He looks at peace. A pocket of stillness and tranquility on the busy city sidewalk, surrounded by a sea of people and the flash of cars on the street.

A statue of marbled perfection, picturesque and beautiful with a backdrop of a bustling city.

And for a moment, Keith thinks that might be all he is. Stone. A mirage. Something corporeal but untouchable all the same. Removed from this reality. From this world. Something he can't have— can't touch—

And then Lance moves. Tilts his head and opens his eyes as Keith approaches. And that smile of his stretches wider. Curling across his face and crinkling the edges of his eyes. A bright spot of sunshine in the pouring rain.

It takes Keith's breath away. A blow to his lungs. Leaving him dizzy and lightheaded. Something in his gut twists. A heat. A rumbling warmth that surges outward, blooming into his veins. A fluttering that fills him, making his limbs feel jittery and skin tingling.

His fingertips twitch. Half curling into fists. A need to touch. A need to hold back.

His heart hammers. Pulse drowning out the sounds of the city. Vision fading at the edges until all he can see is the bright spot that is Lance.

Lance... who he's come to trust.

Lance... who awakens something deep within him, resonating in a cavernous void held in his chest, untouched for years, silent and numb.

Lance... who, in such a short span of time, he can't imagine life without—

But that's just it, isn't it? It... hasn't been that short of a time. Well, it _has_ , but... but there was a foundation. He can't remember it, but somehow... his body remembers Lance. His instincts remember Lance. He inherently _trusts_ Lance, and that's allowed them to grow closer and—

" _Keith_..." Lance breathes his name like a sigh. Thick with emotion. Relief. Anticipation. Achingly fond. Heart-wrechingly worried. So much. Too much.

It resonates inside him. Vibrating along his heartstrings until it tugs. Pull him closer. Unable to resist as he stumbles forward. Heart in his throat as he rushes to Lance. Pulse bruising against his ribs as he reaches out, fingers carding through Lance's hair to wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him forward—

Lance pushes forward on his own. Lips like honey as he melts against Keith. Turning to face him. Free arm wrapping around his waist to pull them close. The umbrella lowers, tipping forward, giving them some semblance of privacy.

Their kiss isn't rushed, but there's an underlying urgency. A firmness with which they slot their mouths together. A delicate intimacy with which Lance slides his tongue past Keith's lips. Gentle and reverent, but desperate in the way he nips at Keith's lips. In the way his fingers curl into the back of Keith's jacket. In the way their foreheads press tight, noses pressed roughly to cheeks and exhaling sharply, breaths panting.

Keith is desperate for him— for his touch— in ways he doesn't understand— in ways he's desperate _to_ understand.

Lance clings to him like he's afraid. Kisses him like a man drowning.

When they pull apart, they don't go far. Still touching. Keith holding Lance's forehead to his. Lance holding Keith's body flush to his own. Noses trail along each other, lips hovering and breaths mingling. When Keith licks his lips, his tongue brushes across Lance's bottom lip, and he can feel the fey shiver.

Keith meets his eyes. Stares at them until they start to blur into one. Lost in the way those gemstone fractals shift and swirl, hues of blue crashing into each other like waves on a beach.

"We need to talk," he says, voice low and hoarse, heart in his throat. Lance is silent for a long moment, eyes assessing and drawing conclusions. Lips pursing tight. "I have a question to ask you. Again. And I think you owe me answers this time."

If he asks a third time, Lance will _have_ to answer. A fey rule of three. He'll have to answer, and it will have to be truthful. Keith has respected Lance's wishes this long, but now he wants to know.

He _needs_ to know.

He feels Lance's long exhale. Feels it caress his cheeks and feels his body deflate against him. His forehead slips from Keith's, falling to his shoulder instead, face burying in the crook of his neck.

"Okay," he says, defeat heavy in that one word, voice thick with exhaustion. "Okay. But... but not here."

Keith takes his hand and pulls away, offering a small, encouraging smile even as nervousness bubbles in his gut. Lance's lips reflect that smile, right down to the anxiousness swimming in his gaze.

They turn, headed down the sidewalk and towards their usual route to the tattoo shop, but Keith only gets two steps before Lance stops moving, tugging him to a sharp stop by his hand.

"Lance?" He asks, turning with one brow cocked. His smile fades as he sees the look on Lance's face. Eyes sharp. Furrowed brows slowly smoothing out. The lines on his face ease, forming into that perfect, porcelain mask that gives away nothing but radiates cold. His lips, however, remain pursed into a small, thin line.

Lance's hand tightens in his.

"Keith." His voice is so calm. So steady. Pointed in a way that radiates danger beneath the still surface. That strange, fragile peace before a storm.

Keith feels a shudder run through him, posture stiffening in automatic response. A tickle of dread, cold in his chest. Blood tingling as his magic starts to leak through his veins, adrenaline fueled and preparing him for whatever is to come.

Lance doesn't look at him. Eyes locked somewhere ahead, past Keith's shoulder. His voice is low and cutting. "I need you to go."

"What—"

"Go back down those steps. Get back on the subway, and go home."

"Lance—"

"Stay there until I come for you."

" _Lance—_ "

"Tell Shiro to go home as soon as possible and to stay with you."

"What's going on—"

"Go."

"Lance—"

" _Go!_ " With a sharp yank, he pulls Keith back several steps, stepping in front of him and pushing him back towards the subway entrance.

But Keith doesn't go. He follows Lance's gaze, searching through the crowd until—

The fey towers over the crowd. Long and lithe. Body obscured by the robes they wear. Face long and bone white, slit like yellow eyes glowing. Shadow writhing beneath the hood. Shimmering with the glamour that's concealing them from human eyes.

The same fey from the faerie ring.

The one who was following Lance.

But... they're not staring at Lance. All four eyes are locked solely on Keith.

A shiver runs down his spine. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Goosebumps rise on his flesh. He can't look away from those glowing, golden eyes. The fey doesn't move. Simply looms and stares. The crowd splits around them, without noticing. Subconscious telling them to avoid the fey but not thinking twice when they step around a space that should be clear.

"Lance," Keith says lowly, urgency making his breath harsh. He reaches for Lance's hand, grabbing his wrist tight when Lance tries to pull away. "You need to come with me. They're still after you—"

"They're not after me," Lance snaps. Venom on his tongue. "I don't know if they want you because I care about you, or because they know who you are. Either way, you need to go. _Now_."

"Not without you."

"Keith—"

"I'm not leaving you again. Not when that _thing_ is after you—"

"That _thing_ is one of the winter queen's personal servants, and if they find out you’re an ironblood— an ironblood consorting with a lord of the Summer Court— they won’t stop until they figure out a way to get around faerie law and _kill you_ —“

"I'd like to see it try."

" _Keith_." It's full of frustrated exasperation, and Lance even whips his head around to pin Keith with a firm glare.

But Keith doesn't look at him.

His eyes are on the fey as they lift one arm. It's too long, proportions eerily off. The hand that extends from the flared sleeve is small but the fingers are long and crooked, knobbed knuckles and sharp, curved talons. The fingers curl. There's a static in the air. Keith feels it buzz across his skin. Stealing the breath from his lungs.

Dark energy crackles along the fey's hand, gathering and arcing across purple flesh. Black lightning gathering, coiling, ready to strike— aimed right at them—

" _Come on._ " Keith whirls, darting for the subway entrance and forcibly dragging Lance by the wrist. The man stumbles, letting out a shout and a yelp as he's forced to follow.

They dart down the steps two at a time, and they're halfway down when the cement wall at the top of the stairs cracks and splinters, exploding with a crackle of lightning and singed black.

The people around them gasp and shout, ducking for cover from flying debris. Keith and Lance whirl, staring wide eyed at the destruction. Eyes snapping to where the fey is hurrying after them, robes wisping across the ground like smoke. They lift a hand. Another crackle of energy. An arcing black bolt of lightning.

Lance throws himself over Keith, shoving him down the steps as the bolt shoots over their heads, slamming into the cement overhang above the stairs. It cracks and splinters, large chunks falling to the steps below, smoking and static with energy.

They fall hard to the steps. Pain erupts from Keith's knee and his thigh hits hard against an edge as they roll several steps down. But the pain fades. Drowned out by the fire and adrenaline burning in his veins. Muted by the urgency crashing through him.

Panic breaks out around them. Humans scream. They shout. They scatter. Confusion making the mob a churning hell hole as people run from the stairs, but seem torn whether they should escape outside or further into the tunnel.

Keith is on his feet in seconds, pulling Lance up with him before dragging him bodily through the crowd, shoving through the bodies, deeper and deeper into the subway station.

“How can they attack us?” He asks, adrenaline sharp in his lungs. “We didn’t slight them!”

“They’re not attacking _us_. They’re attacking _around_ us. They’re trying to provoke you into attacking _them_ so they have every right to attack you back.”

“That’s _bullshit!_ ”

“That’s _fey_ ,” Lance says with a bitter, humorless laugh. “It might be a trap to see if you’re human or fey.”

“So the best thing to do is run?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier—“

"Rolo! Nyma!" He shouts as soon as he hears the beat of their drum. The singing stops immediately, and by the time he shoves through the crowd, they're already on their feet, eyes sharp and alert, Beezer snarling at their side.

He doesn't ask them for help. He doesn't tell them what's happening. They hear it in his voice and read it in his eyes as he drags Lance past them, running as fast as he can through the crowded train station.

Their eyes snap from him to over his shoulder, toward the entrance. He sees their gazes narrow. Sees their bodies tense and stiffen, hands curling into fists as they frown, grim and determined.

He knows he can count on them. Knows he wouldn't hesitate to do the same for them. Knows that they'll only stay as long as they can manage before having Beezer blink them out to safety. Knows that he'll be grateful for any amount of time they can buy him.

He leaps over the turnstile, ignoring the shouts around him as Lance follows him over. At the sound of a pained hiss, he turns, seeing Lance shake out a singed hand before holding it to his chest. His face contorted in a pained wince for only a moment before he slips it behind his mask.

Keith's eyes dart to the metal turnstile, cursing under his breath as the metal gleams menacingly beneath the florescent lights.

He can only offer Lance an apologetic smile before turning and dragging him toward the platform.

A train roars into the station, bringing with it a gust of wind that tugs at his hair and his jacket, but he grins. Escape is close— _so close_ — He can hear Nyma's voice echoing in the distance, sharp and cutting and eerily beautiful all the same.

He glances over his shoulder, and while the crowd is still in a state of panic and confusion, he can neither see Rolo and Nyma or the fey.

The doors hiss open, and Keith moves with the crowd to enter—

And is pulled to a stop.

He turns to find Lance standing resolute. Still as stone. Staring at the train with wide eyed fear and lines cutting deep around his furrowed brows. "Keith..." He breathes, voice ragged and harsh, panic cutting him to shreds. "Keith— I _can't—_ "

"Lance," He turns, pulling Lance's hand to him and pressing it to his chest. " _Lance_ , look at me." He gets close, all but forcing the fey to look at him. Holding those beautiful, frightened eyes. He holds those eyes steady as he asks, "Do you trust me?"

There's no hesitation, but it still rings with dread. "Yes."

"I won't let you get hurt," he promises, taking a step backwards toward the train, hand tightening over Lance's. Fire in his eyes and fury in his voice. "We either get on this train together, or we face that fey together, but I'm not leaving you again."

Lance holds his gaze for a moment, searching his face before his eyes drift to the train behind him. He can see the fear. Can see how torn he is. Lance half turns, gazing over his shoulder—

And when he looks back, his expression is set. His lips are pressed into a thin, grim line. Determination flares in his eyes, a false confidence and thick bravado pulling his spine straighter and lifting his chin as he says, "Fine."

His voice cracks, but Keith doesn't care. He turns and hauls Lance onto the train.

The doors hiss shut, and he hears Lance's breath hitch, coming rapid and shallow, eyes wide and panicking as they dart around. He looks like a wild and caged animal, trapped in a box of metal and glass.

Keith reaches for him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. Until their chests are flush and their heads are bowed together. He reaches above him with his other hand, holding onto a bar above to steady them both.

"Just hold onto me, okay?" He whispers, breath hot against Lance's ear. "Stand on my shoes and hold onto me. It'll be okay. You won't have to touch anything."

Lance does as he's told, stepping up onto the tops of Keith's feet and wrapping his arms tight around his waist, beneath his jacket. His fingers curl tight into the fabric of Keith's shirt, arms like a vice. His head bows forward, face buried into the curve of Keith's neck, shallow pants hot against his skin.

He holds onto Lance, arm wrapped around him like an anchor. He tilts his head, resting his cheek against Lance's hear and whispering soothingly into his ear. _"Shhh, it'll be okay. Just breathe with me, okay? Focus on my breathing. I know you can feel it. Just breathe with me."_

The train rocks into motion, and Lance's body stiffens as they sway with it, grip tightening and breath hitching sharply.

As they pull away from the station, Keith stares out the window, eyes locked on the glowing golden eyes of the fey as it watches them go, bone white skull shimmering under the flickering florescent lights.

* * *

The walk back from the subway station is quiet. They keep their heads down, but eyes alert. Lance had dropped the umbrella in their mad dash to escape, so they pull up their hoods and hunch their shoulders against the rain.

The air between them is heavy. Weighted with the unknown. Strung tight with anticipation. Both lost to their thoughts and the daze left by adrenaline gone sour.

Keith prepares himself for the conversation to come.

He's pretty certain Lance is doing the same.

He doesn't breathe easy until they're inside his house, safe over the threshold with the door shut and locked behind them. Kosmo comes to greet them, but he must sense the mood because even his enthusiasm is dimmed.

They shed their wet jackets, hanging them up to dry. Lance refreshes his glamour to rid himself of the water while Keith goes to change.

When he comes out, hair still damp but with dry clothes, Lance is waiting for him on the couch. Kosmo lies next to him, head in his lap. Lance idly runs his fingers through the wolf's fur, but his eyes are distant and his lips are pursed into a small frown.

Keith lets out a long exhale as he sinks onto the couch next to him, pulling a knee onto the cushion to turn towards him. Lance doesn't look up, and the silence persists.

"Go ahead," Lance finally says, barely above a whisper. Just the slightest ripple across a still pond. "You can ask it."

He doesn't know why he's hesitating, but he feels his entire body clench. His lungs feel tight and his heart feels strangled, lodged in his throat, making it hard to speak. His hands squeeze into fists, nails biting into his palms.

He doesn't register the pain until Lance reaches out, lying a hand over Keith's, his simple touch feather light and soothing away his nerves. He looks down, focused on that hand—

It's bright red. With a frown, he turns his hands over, taking Lance's gingerly between his own and flipping it over. A small breath leaves him, heart twisting as he sees Lance's palm and finger tips covered in rising blisters. The flesh looks boiled and bubbled. Angry and red.

He looks at Lance, but Lance is turned away. Lips pursed and brows furrowed. Lines around his eyes tight. He hides the pain well, but there's a tension in his jaw, ticking at his temple.

Keith covers his palm with his own, feeling guilt when Lance winces. He closes his eyes, breathing in deep and reaching deep inside himself, finding that ember of his magic that lives within his core. As he breathes out, slow and controlled, he stokes that ember to flame. Feeling it pulse warm through his veins. Pin prickles and needles beneath his skin.

He focuses it down his arm. Down to his hand. Lifts his hand to his lips and presses his thumb to a sharp canine, pressuring it quick and hard until the skin breaks.

Cradling Lance's hand with one of his own, he presses his thumb to the center of Lance's palm. His magic surges through his blood, focused and concentrating on the drops spilling from him. His brows furrow in concentration as he urges it to sink into Lance's skin. Urges it to meld with Lance's own blood. Uses his temporary and tremulous hold to direct— control— use Lance's blood to quicken the healing process.

It's a strange sensation. Feels like sharp needles beneath his flesh. Feels like molten metal in his veins, threatening to burn him alive. Feels strangely distant as he still controls his own blood outside his body, fusing it into someone else, using that connection to control them—

When he opens his eyes, Lance's hand is smooth once more. Still red, but no longer blistered. He runs his fingertips over his palm, featherlight and reverent, feeling his lips tug into a small smile at the unblemished skin, silk to the touch.

“You have my gratitude,” Lance breathes, and Keith looks up to lock eyes with him. The tension is smoothed from his brow. Eyes lidded and dark. Smile hesitant and fond and awed as he stares at Keith in wonder.

Makes it easier when Keith opens his mouth to say, "Before that day at the subway station, did we know each other?"

Lance's eyes drift shut, body heaving with a heavy breath, shuddering out a sigh as he says, "Yes." Then his eyes open, locking onto Keith's with amusement dancing in their depths. A wry smile curving his lips as he tilts his head. "But you already knew that."

"Yes, but..." He shakes his head, lips pursing in his confusion, frustration edging his words. "I still don't remember."

Lance turns to face him fully, reaching out his free hand to cup Keith's cheek. Smile still in place but eyes torn. Excitement and sorrow crashing into each other, swirling in those blue depths. "I can help you with that," he breathes. "But you have to understand... if I do, there's no going back."

His heart shudders. His stomach churns. His magic still prickles beneath his skin and singes his veins, but a warmth pools pleasantly in his gut. A fluttering in his chest. He puts a hand to Lance's, weaving their fingers together as he nuzzles into his palm, eyes never leaving his. "I don't want to go back."

He wants to move forward.

He wants to understand.

Lance sighs, eyes closing. His other hand comes up to join the first, cupping Keith's face between his palms as he pulls him forward. Leans into him. Presses their foreheads together.

"I hope you can forgive me," he whispers.

His eyes snap open, irises swirling and glowing. More and more— until they're white. Completely white. Bright and blinding. His fingers curl, nails biting into Keith's flesh. Sharp and jagged. Energy crackles along them. Their foreheads push too hard.

Pain erupts at his forehead, piercing back into his skull. Sharp and overwhelming. Ripping a gasp from his lips. Causing his whole body to tense. His hands grip into Lance's wrists, but he can't pull the fey away. He's as immovable as stone as the pain builds— and builds— sharp and hot and tearing him apart—

And then everything goes white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we're gonna get some MEMORIES. I hope yall are exciTED.
> 
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> I'm most active on twitter. More info in my pinned tweet <33 To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
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	6. Never Save Their Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he's thirteen, Keith meets Lance for the first time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered, "How is Wittyy ever going to outdo themself?" 
> 
> Well, how about I write a childhood-friends-to-lovers oneshot within a greater strangers-to-lovers multi-chapter fic?
> 
> This is the longest chapter of this fic at 21k words, and it's entirely about how Keith and Lance meet, get to know each other, fall in love, and how Keith loses his memories. 
> 
> It was a lot of fun to write, and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading <33

When he's thirteen, Keith meets Lance for the first time.

Some might say it was a twist of fate, predesigned and prophesied, but Keith doesn't believe in those things. Not one bit. He _refuses_. So whether it's some fey or druid babbling about the big complicated woven web of fate, or some of the old church ladies at his dad's funeral telling him that _it's all according to God's plan_ , Keith doesn't care.

He purses his lips and glares and tells them they’re full of shit before walking away, leaving them gaping and gasping that a mere child would talk to them in such a way.

Believing in destiny has a lot of implications that he doesn't like. Believing in destiny means that from the moment he was born, he was destined to be alone. Was _meant_ to be alone. That he was only ever meant to have a limited time with his parents. That he was always meant to do the foster home shuffle and fated to be _alone._

That his mom was never meant to stay with them.

That his father was always meant to die in a burning building.

So yeah, he doesn't believe in fate. It's a bunch of horse-shit. And yeah, he's gonna say it. He may just be thirteen, but he's lost both his parents, so _fuck_ what anyone has to say on the matter. Fuck. That's a good one, too. He likes the expressions adults make when he uses it.

So when he meets Lance, it's an accident. A coincidence. Nothing more and nothing less. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time— the right place at the right time? He wasn't about that one at the time. He doesn't become sure of it for a while.

He's out on one of his long walks. He takes them daily. From the moment he gets home from school until it gets dark. His newest foster family lives near the woods, giving him a good place to escape. They're kind enough, he thinks, but their house is busy. There are several kids besides him, and they're all louder. Better at school. Better at being rebellious. In need of things and vocal about it. Keith fades easily into the background, and he's okay with that.

So he gets out of the house as often as he can, taking to the woods and long walks, slipping back into the house for dinner without any of them realizing that he's been gone.

He likes it this way. He's not used to loud voices and busy homes. Growing up, it had just been him and his dad, and they always lived far from others. He never knew what it was like to have neighbors, but always knew what it was like to have the expanse of wilderness as his backyard.

It was peaceful. Quiet. He liked it. Misses it. His dad always told him that cities and towns were full of fey looking to prey on humans and most forest fey keep to themselves. It was safer this way.

Because he had second sight, a gift from Keith's mother, and Keith was an ironblood. If the fey knew about them, they'd be in danger. He learned this from a young age. He doesn't remember a time when he didn't know it. His father made him learn the laws of fey early on. Made him memorize the ways to stay safe.

Unfortunately, in the end, those rules couldn't save him when fey collapsed that burning building, and now Keith is alone.

When he's in the forest, however, being alone doesn't feel so terrible. Something about it is just... welcoming. Fills him with a sense of peace that the city can't. He doesn't know if that's his fey blood or his upbringing. Figures it doesn't really matter.

He's only lived with this new foster family for a few months, but he's already mapped out the entire area around them. He knows the forest paths. He knows the abandoned farms. He knows the empty, overrun houses. He knows the ponds and the streams. He knows all the best places to catch frogs and find berries.

So when he's walking one late afternoon, putting off going home despite the deep orange hue the setting sun casts through the trees, and hears the groaning _crash_ and sickening _snap_ of metal, he knows _exactly_ where it's coming from.

He jumps, head snapping in that direction, heart hammering as the echo from that terrible crumbling _sound_ echoes in his ears. He doesn't know how to describe it, but he recognizes it. A building collapsing. An old one. If you add the roar of flames, it's no different than the collapse he's watched on the news dozens of times the day his father died.

His feet are moving before he understands what he's doing. There's a building nearby, a gutted and empty one, scarred with an old fire and left to rust in the years to follow. He knows exactly where it is, having explored it only a few weeks before. He races through the undergrowth, pushing aside tree branches and ignoring the thorns that catch at his clothes.

And then—

He sees it. Comes to a stop at the tree-line, one hand against a trunk for support as he catches his breath. The building's roof has collapsed, two floors crushed down to the earth. Dust still wafts in a heavy cloud in the air.

Then he hears the voices.

"Lotor, please!" A shiver runs down Keith's spine. A cold spike of dread. There's a desperation in that voice that twists his stomach. He tastes bile on the back of his tongue. He feels the panic as if it were his own. It's followed by coughing, a voice that's rough and choked, "I can't— I can't _breathe—"_

"Ah, that would no doubt be the rust in the air. Kicked up by the collapse." Chillingly calm. Casual and easy. An air of superiority. Hollow and void of emotion.

Keith's panic solidifies into dread. He's heard voices like that before. _Fey_ voices. He can't even see the fey yet, but he can _hear_ it in his voice. His body reacts to it all the same. He _knows_.

"Flakes of airborne iron. They'll fill your lungs with every inhale. It must be excruciating."

" _Lotor_ —" A cracked cough. A wheezing breath. "I'm _stuck_ —"

"I can help you, of course. For a price."

"A price—?!"

"Now, now, dear Lance. Don't sound so incredulous. You know that everything we do is for a price. It is in our very nature. Every gracious action must be repaid."

"You brought me here!"

"I did. And I cannot say that I wasn't hoping for and expecting this outcome. You see, there is something I need from you, Lance. And this was the only conceivable way to convince you to give it to me."

"What—?" More coughing. A strangled groan.

"I really don't want to leave you here. You are, after all, Allura's favorite, and she will be so sad if you were gone. However, you are in my way, and I need assurances. I will pull you from this wreckage... for a favor."

" _No_." The voice is hoarse and choked, but dripping in biting anger. Cut through with venom.

"Your name, then."

" _Never_."

"Step down as Allura's suitor and agree to never court her again."

"No!"

"Then we have no deal, and I have no business here."

"Lotor! You can't— You can't just leave me here—!"

"I can, and I will. The deal is still on the table—"

" _Never."_

"—Then there's nothing I can do. On some level, I do hope you manage to escape, and that this will only serve as a warning. I do hope you understand that this is nothing personal. Merely business. Merely our nature. This is your first taste of court life, and you will find not all will be as... gentle about it as I am. Good luck, Lance. I hope one day we can see eye-to-eye."

As a figure moves away from the building, Keith ducks behind a tree, peering around the edge. Despite being in the mortal realm, the fey doesn't bother with wearing a glamour. Either he's certain no mortals will be around, or his confidence has become arrogance.

He's tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His arms are just a little too long to be human. Long white hair falls flawlessly down his back, and his ears are long and pointed. From what Keith can see of his skin, it's purple. He stands tall and proud, hands clasped loosely behind him as he strolls away with measured steps.

He never once looks back, despite the other's pitiful and broken cries for help.

Something in Keith's chest snaps, defenses and caution worn away by the sounds of a boy _dying_. It's primal and raw, desperate and _scared_. For a brief, visceral moment, Keith imagines his dad, trapped beneath rubble and surrounded by flames, and his decision is made.

As soon as the fey is out of sight, Keith is running, _sprinting_ as fast as his legs can carry him toward the collapsed building. He climbs up broken pieces of wood, and rock, and metal, waving a hand in front of his face to clear some of the dust.

He can hear the boy's cries peter out into broken sobs and pained groans.

"Hello?" He calls, coughing as he inhales some of the dust. "Hey! Where are you?"

There's a pause, and then with newfound urgency and brimming with hope, the voice calls, "Here! Over here! Please, hurry!"

Keith stumbles through the rubble, clambering through the wreckage. He doesn't care that his clothes are becoming messy and torn. He doesn't care that he'll have splinters and cuts when he gets home. All he can think of is a boy trapped and scared for his life.

Keith finds him trapped at the center of the building, surrounded by wooden planks and the twisted metal skeleton that was holding the building up. He's covered in dirt and dust, half hidden by the long, dark shadows that creep in with the setting sun.

"Help," he wheezes as Keith nears. " _Please_ —" He's thrown into a coughing fit. "I can't— the air— it _burns_ —"

The conversation he over heard should have been his first clue. This should have been his second. His third should have been the way the boy's skin glimmered and shone like crystal diamonds when it caught the light.

But none of those clues sunk in. All he could feel was overwhelming panic and _fear_ and a determination that burned like wild fire in his veins. He hadn't been there to save his dad, but he's here _now_ , and he can save this boy.

It takes a joint effort to pull him from the rubble. Despite being an ironblood, he's still young and his body is weak. He has more of an affinity for fire than physical strength. Still, between the two of them, Keith is able to clear some of the wreckage and use pieces as leverage to lift the brunt of the weight just enough to allow the boy to wiggle free.

He collapses to the ground, eyes squeezed shut and face twisted in pain as he pants. Keith rushes to him, glancing warily at the rubble as it shifts and groans. The whole building hasn't come down, just the center of it, but they need to get out before it does.

Pulling the boy's arm around his shoulders and wrapping his own around his waist, Keith practically drags him from the wreckage. He leans heavily into Keith's side, breath ragged and hoarse and wet. It doesn't sound good, but at least he's breathing. At least he's free.

Keith doesn't stop until they reach the trees. He helps the boy sit, back pressed up against a thick trunk, and then he drops down into a crouch, elbows resting on his knees, as he catches his own breath.

It's only then, as he's coming down from his adrenaline high, mingling with the endorphins of success and relief, that Keith notices.

Notices the thin sheen on his skin. Notices the thicker glow of diamond white on the crest of his cheekbones. Notices the way his hair shimmers and his ears practically shine. Notices the angry red blistering burns on his skin where his clothes are torn, where the iron of the building's crumbled structure had him pinned.

Remembers how that fey had talked about a court, and rust burning his lungs, and making deals.

Then the boy opens his eyes, and Keith's breath is punched from his lungs.

His eyes... they're blue, but they're so much _more_ than that. They swirl and shift. Like the twisting facet of a gemstone in the light. Like the swirling depths of the ocean, waves crashing and churning.

Keith has never seen eyes like that.

They're _terrifying._

They're _beautiful._

"You..." The boy wheezes. Each breath is labored, but he's breathing. His lips are shaking, but they pull into a quivering smile. He stares at Keith with far too much awe. Perhaps far too much fear. "You— saved me..."

"Who are you?" Keith asks out of habit more than anything else. He already knows. _Fey_. Alarms are sounding in his head. Heart hammering and ears ringing. The heat of his magic prickles beneath his skin, shifting restlessly under his flesh.

_Warning. Screaming. Run._

The boy smirks, and how he manages to look like that despite clearly being in pain, Keith doesn't know. "You can call me Lance." His smirk falls as he's thrown into a violent coughing fit, and when it subsides, he takes a moment to look Keith over, taking slow, measured breathes. The cockiness is gone, replaced by something wary. "And you... you saved my life."

Something about the way he says that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He pushes himself to his feet, stumbling back several steps. "No, I didn't," he says, throwing his hands up and shaking his head.

"You did," the fey— _Lance_ — insists. His eyes harden, lips pursing into a thin line. "I owe you a debt—"

"No!" Keith snaps, eyes widening as Lance's do. "I— I mean..." His arms fall to his sides, curled into fists. He's too stiff, shoulders hiked up to his ears and arms far too straight. "Don't worry about it. It was nothing. You probably would've been fine without me."

"No, I would have died. I owe you—"

"No!" Keith tries for a smile, but it feels awkward. The stilted laugh that escapes him in painful to hear. "Don't worry about it— I'm gonna just—" He waves vaguely over his shoulder, already backing up. "Go—"

"Wait—!"

" _Bye!"_

Keith turns on his heel and runs. Runs as fast as his aching legs can carry him, and then faster still. He runs until his lungs ache, sweat pours from his brow, and his knees threatens to give out. He runs through the thorn bushes and ignores the sting of tree branches against his cheeks. He runs until he breaks through the forest and stumbles into the yard of his foster home.

Only then does he stop to breathe.

Only then does he look back.

He doesn't see any sign of Lance, but there's a twisting shiver of dread starting to ooze down his spine, seeping into his bones.

When he's thirteen, through a some sort of mangled cross between a stupid accident, pure coincidence, and bad luck, Keith ends up having a fey indebted to him, and he doesn't know what to do about it.

* * *

For a while, Keith was hyper vigilant. Everywhere he went, he was looking over his shoulder. Every time he heard a fey voice, he flinched. Every time he saw a shimmer of glamour, he hid. He looked paranoid. He looked skittish.

But weeks passed without seeing Lance, and Keith was stupid enough to believe that perhaps the fey had forgotten about him.

The first _incident_ happened three weeks after he rescued Lance.

He's outside, idly and lazily swinging on the old, wooden swing-set that his foster family has in the backyard. The house is noisy and full of motion, but he's been cutting back on his walks through the forest. So he sits by himself outside, trying to find some peace, red Gameboy in his hands.

It starts as a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. His magic buzzes in his chest, slow at first, building into a low hum. It sends vibrations throughout his veins. An unease crawling beneath his skin. He glances away from his Gameboy to find that the hair on his arms is standing on end.

He feels... like he's being watched.

He looks up, twisting on the swing to look out at the forest that pushes up against the back of the property. His eyes narrow, searching the shadows, but he can't find anything strange.

The wind kicks up, rustling the leaves and tugging at his hair. He shivers, and that's when he realizes it's not just the sensation that makes his body shudder. The air feels... colder?

"Keith!"

His head whips back around, toward the house, finding his foster mom standing on the back porch, purse thrown over one shoulder.

"Yeah?" He calls back, ignoring the way his heart beats faster at putting his back to the forest.

"We're going to run to the grocery store. Do you want to come?"

"No."

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Then can you please clean up the living room and do the dishes while we're gone? Everything is a mess."

"It's not my mess!"

"I know, but we all have to pitch in to make the house clean. Please do it before we get home."

He huffs as she turns to leave, shoulders slumping as he looks down to save his game. It's _never_ his mess. It's all his foster siblings. They throw things around and leave messes and take the fact that they have a home at all for granted. And no one _ever_ does the dishes. They pile up around the house for days on end.

"I _hate_ doing the dishes..." He grumbles, getting off the swing.

" _Keith_..." His name is a whisper on the wind, feeling like the gentle brush of fingers on the back of his neck. " _Nice name."_

He whips around. "Who's there?" He demands, but all that greets him is silence. He stares at the forest, but nothing moves.

Then there's a rush of wind, bitter cold, but it doesn't act as wind should. It rushes past him, but seems to curl around him. Tugging at his clothes in several directions. Moving through his hair like fingers. He shivers violently, and then turns on his heel and runs toward the house.

Only once he's crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him does he feel like he can breathe. He looks back through the glass door, but sees nothing. He pulls the curtains closed just in case.

Turning to face the room—

He finds everything gone.

The furniture is still there, as are the pictures on the wall and the things that were stacked neatly on shelves. But everything else— toys on the floor, blankets strewn about, pillows haphazardly discarded, electronics left out, cups left on side tables, homework left on the kitchen table— it's all just... _gone._

The house looks eerily empty like this. It doesn't look like a _home._

He rushes to the kitchen to find the sink and counter empty of dishes, which _should_ be a relief, but isn't. Not when he checks the cabinets and dishwasher but can't find any of the missing dishes. Half of the things in the kitchen— all dirty dishes— are just... _gone._

His breath comes fast as he steadiest himself on the counter, eyes wide and head swirling and he tries to figure out what happened— what to do—

And he hears a giggle from outside. A soft laugh on the wind. A voice that sounds strangely familiar...

When he rushes back to the window, ripping the curtains away, he catches a glimpse of shimmering glamour in the trees before it's gone.

On the glass, written in a frost that's slowly melting, are the words:

_Your mess is now gone! You're welcome. -Lance_

Keith groans, long and loud, closing his eyes as his forehead drops against the glass. He bangs it against the door several more times before shouting, "I didn't want this!"

He's going to be in _so much_ trouble.

* * *

The next incident happens with little warning.

He's walking down the street, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. It's not the first time he's skipped class, and it definitely won't be the last.

He stops outside a game shop, looking wistfully through the windows at the new displays. He hasn't gotten allowance in a long time. His foster family are keeping it to pay off all the things in the house that went missing. They don't believe him when he says he didn't do it, and he can't exactly explain who _did_ do it. He knows better than to tell people about the fey.

So he stopped trying to convince them that he's innocent. Started just taking the punishment. What's a few months without allowance? He'll be fine.

Still, he heaves a heavy sigh, putting a hand to the glass. He wishes he had enough for a new game.

"Why are you so sad?"

He pulls his hand back as he jumps, clutching his chest and feeling his rapid heartbeat. He whips around to see— _Lance._

He leans against the brick wall, one foot crossed over the other, arms crossed over his chest. He quirks one eyebrow, head tilted as he stares right at Keith, lips pursed like he's trying to figure out a puzzle.

His glamour is a thin sheen to his tan skin. A shimmer in his chestnut hair. A glow beneath his pretty multifaceted eyes.

Now that he looks closer, and the boy isn't burned and wheezing, he realizes... he looks about the same age as him. Maybe a couple years older. Fey ages are hard to pin point, but he looks young. Definitely younger than that other Lotor fey. He's dressed in weird clothes. Far too fancy for a teenager and not even close to being from this decade. Or this century.

If Keith ignores the shimmering on his cheekbones, he can almost pretend that Lance is just a normal boy.... one who has no idea what modern fashion is and one with pretty eyes.

Keith looks away, biting back the snippy retort. His dad told him he always has to be polite to fey, even if he doesn't want to. He can't insult them.

"I'm not," he says instead. The lie tastes sour on his tongue.

"You are," Lance says, tilting his head as if to look at Keith from another angle. "You're sad. Why?"

He _wants_ to say that he's _sad_ because he's being punished for something that _Lance_ did. But that would be an insult, wouldn't it? It would make him sound ungrateful or something. Would it expose him as an ironblood? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. He just wants Lance to go away. So he gives him the simple answer: "I don't have any money."

Lance hums, nodding slowly. "You want... to be able to buy things."

Keith shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I guess." He turns on his heel, already taking a step away. "I gotta go. Bye."

A couple things happen all at once: an alarm sounds across the street, and he staggers under the sudden weight of his backpack.

He turns at the shouting, people running out of the jewelry store across from the game shop. People waving their hands around frantically. Practically screaming. Sirens in the distance.

"Everything is _gone!_ " He hears someone say. "Just— _gone!"_

He feels like he can't breath. His heart is in his throat. He turns slowly to find Lance still standing there. Still staring at him. _Grinning_ , wide and proud.

Keith lets his backpack drop to the ground, and it hits heavily, the sound of things clattering inside. His hands are shaking as he crouches down, unzipping it and pulling it open— gasping as he's met with the sight of his backpack _filled_ with glittering gems and jewelry. Gold. Silver. _Diamonds_. He picks a necklace up, just to make sure it's real—

"Hey!"

He snaps his head up to find a woman across the street pointing at him.

"What does that kid have? Does he— He has the jewels!"

"Fuck," Keith hisses, dropping the necklace and leaping to his feet. People are staring— starting to jog across the street towards him— he glances at Lance, and when they make eye contact— when the fey sees his mounting panic— his grin slowly fades to confusion. " _Fuck."_

He turns and runs, shoving and weaving through the crowd. People chase him, but he's faster, and they give up their pursuit before they catch him. Besides, he left his backpack behind.

He's in _so much_ trouble.

* * *

For a while, Keith thinks he's seen the last of Lance.

A new foster family. A new home. A new town. A new school.

Same quiet attitude. Same lack of friends. Same awkward tension at home with foster parents who either care too much or too little and don't understand anything that Keith is going through.

He spends his lunch break in the biology classroom, alone, glaring at the egg carton labeled with his name. The dirt is just that: _dirt_. No sprouts. No green buds. No sign of life. All of his classmate's projects are already sprouting, growing all leafy stalks. But his won't fucking grow.

He tells himself that he's here to try and salvage his biology grade and not because there's a group of bullies out scouring the courtyard for him.

He holds out a hand toward his carton, palm facing it. He closes his eyes, reaching into that core of magic deep inside him. He keeps it wrapped up in a tightly bundled knot, but at his gentle prodding, he feels it start to loosen. He feels the waves of energy start to pulse through him. Tries to focus it toward his palm.

He's always been afraid of his magic. His dad warned him not to use it. Said that it would give him away as an ironblood. The fear in his dad's eyes was enough to keep a tight leash on his magic. HIs mother was never around to teach him.

Now his dad isn't either.

But the fact remains that he _is_ part fey, and fey are creatures of nature. May he has some like... plant magic or whatever? It's worth a shot.

Heat builds in his chest. It burns, but it doesn't hurt. The surge of power through his veins feels like pinpricks. It shifts beneath his skin, foreign and strange. It hurts, but it doesn't. There's pain, but he doesn't shy away from it.

His forearm stings— _burns_ — white hot where his birthmark is. A dark patch of skin in the shape of a symbol he doesn't understand. It builds— builds— _builds—_

And then the sensation shoots toward his palm like magma, needles itching and pressing from beneath his palm, pushing outward.

He gasps, eyes shooting open, fear spiking—

And he watches as a blade emerges from his palm.

He's terrified— he's scared— panic claws at his lungs— but he doesn't pull back. Doesn't shy away from it. Keeps pushing forward.

The blade glows white and burns like molten metal. When it's all the way out, he instinctively grabs the handle, and the glow fades. Leaves a long, wicked looking dagger. Sharper than steel. Silver and purple. A glowing gemstone on the hilt that bears the same symbol as his birthmark.

"Whoa," he breathes, eyes wide, turning the blade over in his hand. "Holy shit..." It feels... _right_ in his hand, fit perfectly in his grip.

Not at all what he was expecting, but he's not going to complain. A _knife_ just came out of his _hand_. How cool is that?

"Where did he go?"

Keith's eyes widen, head snapping up. Reflexively, he lets go of the dagger, and all at once, it glows white again, sucking back into his palm and disappearing.

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses, clutching his hand to his chest and rubbing the palm with his other thumb. There's not a mark on his skin. No sign it was ever there. But it _hurts_ where it was suddenly yanked back into his palm. Burns and stings like lemon juice in a fresh gash. There's a prickling ache beneath his birthmark.

"There you are!"

He feels a cold breeze drift across the back of his neck.

Keith stiffens. He knows that voice. He never thought he'd hear that voice again. He whips around, right hand still cradled to his chest, and he gapes across the room.

Lance stands in the open doorway, hands on his hips, looking right at Keith with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

Keith opens his mouth to speak— only for the words to catch in his throat. Because the shimmer that usually accompanies Lance is thicker. _Brighter_. Nearly blinding as it shifts over him like a veil.

He's completely glamoured. Hidden from mortal eyes completely. If Keith were human, he wouldn't be able to see him at all.

So he fixes his gaze, snapping his eyes to peer just over Lance's shoulder, and stutters over his words as he forces out, "I-is someone there?"

A lame save, but a save nonetheless. Pretend he heard a sound. Pretend like he can't see the fey standing right there. Perfectly normal human behavior.

Lance's eyes narrow, expression pinching for a moment before it clears. Before he _smiles_ , bright and broad. Straightening with a short laugh. "For a second there, I thought you could see me." There's relief in his voice, and it spikes fear in Keith's veins.

What would happen to him if Lance knew he was an ironblood?

He doesn't want to find out.

After a brief pause, Keith whips back around, grabbing his backpack and throwing it over his shoulder. He casts one last forlorn look at his failed plant experiment. He may have a cool knife, but plant powers would have really come in handy.

"Whatever," he grumbles. "I'll take the F." He stomps toward the doorway, feeling like each step is a little too stiff. He holds his breath, making a straight shot and hoping that Lance will move out of the way.

He does, moving into the room, and Keith breaths a small sigh of relief.

Then he feels a cold rush of air at his back, nearly making him stumble in his surprise. He whips his head around, mouth falling open, grabbing the doorway for support as his knees threaten to give out.

Lance stands in the middle of the room, wiping his hands off, grinning ear-to-ear. "That should do it."

And Keith's egg carton? It's _overrun_. Not only have his seeds sprouted, but they've grown far larger than they should. Thick, blossoming vines that soar from the small patch of dirt and fall across all his classmate's projects. Knocking them to the floor. Spilling their dirt. Crushing their plants.

It looks like a jungle just sprouted from Keith's project and crushed everyone else's in the process.

_"Nooooo..._ " He groans, head falling forward against the hand still resting on the door frame.

It looks like he smashed up everyone else's stuff and planted random plants instead. His teacher is going to think he did this— _everyone_ is going to think he did this.

He pulls back, letting his head drop against the metal of the frame. "God—" He does it again. " _Dammit_."

"Why is he always so ungrateful?" He hears Lance mutter, and he grits his teeth before spinning on his heel and marching away.

Like hell he's going to be here when his teacher comes back.

* * *

Another foster family.

Another move with his precious few possessions in one ratty old suitcase and a large garbage bag.

Another couple months.

He sees fey, but he avoids them like the plague. Actually, he avoids pretty much everyone. Not that anyone tries to get close. He's just the weird new kid. The kid with old clothes. The kid who always scowls. The kid without parents. The kid who randomly gets stiff and walks away without explanation.

He can't exactly explain fey to them. He would rather they think he's rude than crazy. He never realized how nice it was to have someone in his life who understood, and now he has no one.

He hates to admit it— and in fact he _won't_ if anyone asks because it's _stupid_ — not that anyone would ask anyway because no one knows about fey— but Keith has been keeping an eye out for Lance. At first he told himself that it was just because the kid has been ruining everything from the moment he crashed into Keith's life, and it's smart to keep an eye out for that bundle of chaos.

But as longer goes on without seeing him, the more Keith feels like he might... maybe... sort of... _miss_? Him?

It's stupid.

He's stupid.

He shouldn't be _missing_ a fey, especially one he doesn't really even know!

But it's just... he's the only one who's really paid attention to Keith in the past half a year. The only one who listens to what he wants, to what he says. _Yeah_ , so he always interoperates it _wrong_ , but... he tries?

Which is... _stupid_. He's getting sentimental over a boy who's _obligated_ to try to pay Keith back because he thinks he owes Keith. All that fey stuff with deals. It's not because he likes Keith or anything.

_Stupid_.

"Stupid..." He mumbles, sitting at the kitchen table, hunched forward to rest his chin on his arms, fiddling with a pencil in one hand, glaring at the spread of math homework in front of him.

"Keith, we don't use that word," his foster mom says, stern and clipped. As always. The other two foster kids glance over at him, curious and wary, warning him with their eyes. He glares at them.

"I don't understand why we have to do our homework at the table."

"We've been over this. This way I can make sure you get your work done in a timely manner, and it promotes family bonding."

"We're not a family.”

" _Keith_." He hates that voice. Stern and demanding. Clipped and cold. She sounds almost _surprised_. Incredulous. Shocked that a kid who's only been here for a few weeks wouldn't consider her family.

"My real family would buy me honey."

"You do _not_ need honey. It's a sweetener, and none of you need sugar. It's bad for your health."

"I. _Like_. Honey." Honestly, he doesn't know why he's so hung up on the honey thing. He _does_ like honey, like, a _lot_. His dad used to say it's part of his faerie genetics. Still, he could live without it. He's just _tired_ of all these _rules_. And once he bought his own thing of honey, and she threw it away! It's so _stupid_. This house is _stupid_. It's just _honey_ —

A brush of a cool breeze. Movement outside the window catches his eye, and he glances over— freezing when he sees _Lance_. He's shimmering, covered in a translucent veil of colorless glamour that conceals him from mortal eyes. So Keith doesn't stare. He moves his eyes past the window, as if just... letting his gaze roam the kitchen. That's believable, right?

Lance presses against the window, hands cupped to the glass as he peers in. Through the cracked screen, he can hear the boy mutter, "Ah- _ha!_ There you are! Finally..."

That's when Keith gets an idea...

A wicked idea... a mischievous idea... His lips twitch at the edges, curling into a small smirk. Is it a great idea? No. Is he willing to give it a try just to see what happens? Yes. His dad always said that he had a playful fey side, and in moments like this, he thinks he might have been right.

He turns back to his foster mom slowly. Something must show on his face because she frowns, brows pinching. Breezily, casually, loud enough for Lance to hear outside their home, he says, "I really wish I had unlimited honey."

No one at the table says anything for a long moment. None of them are really sure what to make of that. Finally, his foster mom clears her throat, saying sternly, "Well, we can't always have what we want."

He feels the rush of a cold breeze. Knows it's not just him because he watches the others shiver, too.

"What was that?" One of his foster siblings asks.

"Do you hear that?" Asks the other.

It takes Keith a moment ot hear it. A low hum. _Buzzing_. The sound of hundreds of tiny bodies hitting a window. He jumps up from his chair, rushing to the back door. He can see them. _Bees_. So many of them. A _swarm_. Throwing themselves against the glass door in an attempt to get in.

Without thinking, he throws the door open, stepping back as the dark swarm rushes in, loud and angry.

A laugh bubbles out of him as he hears his foster mom scream. As he hears their panicked shouts. He hears them running. Hears the front door thrown open on the other side of the house.

Keith slips out the back door, sliding it shut behind him. He shoves his hands into his pockets, turning on his heel to stride away. When he reaches the back fence, he pulls himself up, pausing as he sits atop it and glancing back at the house.

In his peripheral vision, he can see Lance standing nearby. Hands on his hips. Lips stretched wide. Proud as he beams at Keith. Still glamoured.

Keith smirks, unvoiced laughter bubbling in his chest. He feels light. Lighter than he has in weeks.

"Not what I meant. Not what I wanted," he says aloud, smile quirking wider when he sees Lance's fall. When he sees Lance's pout. He drops on the other side of the fence before Lance can see him grin.

He's stupid. He should've just accepted that as payment or whatever. But if he had, then Lance would no longer owe him, and Lance would leave him alone for good... that's what he _should_ want. He's surprised to find that he doesn't.

He... kind of likes Lance hanging around. At least there's never a dull day when he shows up.

He's stupid.

_Stupid_.

* * *

Something isn't right.

Keith kinda likes this new foster home. They're nice enough. They don't push him too hard. They give him space when he needs it. They take care of him. They don't talk to him like he's an idiot.

Everything seems like it's going great, until suddenly it isn't.

It all started the night they came home to find the house had been broken into. A window was smashed, glass everywhere. Electronics and jewelry were missing. The house was ransacked.

That night, while they spoke with the police, Keith thought he felt the temperature drop, shivering as he pulled his blanket closer around his shoulders. He didn't see Lance, though, so he blamed it on the open doors.

But strange things have been happening ever since.

"Are you sure a package didn't arrive today?" His foster dad says one night. "It was supposed to be delivered days ago. In fact, none of our packages are arriving. I need to have a word with the post office."

"I was supposed to host my book club last night, but no one showed up," his foster mom says a couple days later. "The strange thing is that they all said they forgot! We do this every Tuesday. How can they forget?"

It gets weirder still when Keith invites a few people to his house to work on their group project. They're supposed to do some kinda short film for class, and he offered his house because they have the biggest backyard. He doesn't consider them _friends_ , but it's the closest thing he's had since his childhood.

He was actually looking forward to it, until they didn't show.

They finished their project without him, and he failed for not participating. When he asked why they didn't show up at his house, they looked confused... They said they were going to, but just... forgot. Decided to go somewhere else.

It's... weird.

Too weird to be normal.

Which is why one day, while his foster parents are at work, he sits by the front window and waits. He waits for hours before the mailman arrives. Watches the man get out of his car with a package and start to walk toward their house— watches him take one step down their driveway and freeze. Watches his eyes go wide and blank, jaw gone slack, then turn and walk slowly back toward his car.

Keith grits his teeth, slamming a fist down on the windowsill.

That's not normal. That's _fey_.

He has to wait a couple more days, hanging out in the backyard like bait, before he feels that telltale icy breeze.

He shivers, leaping to his feet as he stomps into the center of the yard. "Lance!" He shouts, turning in a slow circle. "I know you're here! Show yourself!"

"No need to shout, pretty boy, I'm right here." He spins around, but doesn't see— "Up here."

He tilts his head back, eyes narrowing on Lance, sitting on the edge of the roof, feet dangling and idly swinging. His hands rest on the edge on either side of his thighs as he leans forward, gazing down at Keith with that infuriating smirk.

"There you go," he says with amusement. "So we meet again."

"Get down here," Keith grits out, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling up at the boy.

Lance's smile fades, confusion pursing his lips as he frowns. "You sure are demanding." His smirk comes back easily as he leaps down, gracefully landing in a crouch before standing and sauntering over to Keith. He stops in front of him, head cocked to the side as he lifts a finger to press it beneath Keith's chin, lifting his head. "It's a little rude, but I'll forgive you. Especially since you don't know who you're dealing with."

Anger bubbles inside him. Heat flaring in his chest. He focuses on that rather than the warmth itching up the back of his neck. "I know _exactly_ what I'm dealing with," he growls, slapping Lance's hand away.

The fey looks taken aback, eyes widening as his lips part. His eyes swirl, glittering like gemstones as they sharpen, searching Keith's face. They narrow, brows pinching. "You..."

Keith crosses his arms and lifts his chin, standing his ground. He refuses to look away. Refuses to step back. He knows it's stupid— reckless— to stand up to a fey like this, but he needs this _fixed_.

And... if he's honest... Lance... doesn't scare him? Not like other fey he sees. Whenever Lance is around, his body reacts to it. His hair stands on end and his instincts go haywire, just like any other fey, but he doesn't feel... scared. It's... weird. _Lance_ is weird. It's giving him a foolish amount of bravery, causing him to recklessly do things he shouldn't.

"I know exactly what you are," he snaps, stepping forward into Lance's space, jabbing a finger into his chest and forcing him to stumble back. "And I don't know what you did to my house, but I need you to undo it."

"Undo it—" Lance sputters, shock suddenly morphing into anger. He slaps Keith's hand away, pushing back into his space as he throws his own hands up in the air. "I'm protecting you!"

"You're keeping people from coming near the house!"

"Yeah? And that's protecting you! If no one can get near your house, no one can break in or hurt you. It's _flawless_."

"It's _stupid!_ We can't live like this! Undo it!"

They're close, heads practically butting. Both of them scowling and fuming. Despite the cold air that always announces him, Lance radiates heat. It's... surprising. It's more surprising that Keith is close enough to notice, and that he's more focused on that and the way the shimmering glamour on his cheekbones reflects in his eyes—

Lance groans, long and loud, spinning on his heel and stomping away, running his fingers through his hair and pulling at the roots. "You're so _frustrating!_ Why won't you accept any of my gifts? I'm trying to repay my debt!"

"I told you that you don't owe me anything!"

"It doesn't _work like that!_ " Lance spins back around, pointing an accusing finger at Keith. "I don't just owe you a debt. I owe you a _life debt_. It's a big deal!'

"Yeah, well, I don't want it."

"You can't just decide not to want it! You already have it! I need to repay it! Just accept one of my gifts—"

"No, all of your gifts suck."

He sputters, face red and contorted. " _You_ suck!"

Keith feels his lips quirk into a small smirk. Despite himself, he can feel the bubble of amusement welling up in his chest. "Nice come back. Aren't fey supposed to be silver-tongued?"

Lance opens his mouth, no doubt with a sharp retort on his tongue, but his voice dies. Keith watches his eyes widen, body freezing. "You..." he breathes, deathly still. "You know I'm fey..."

" _Yes_ , that's what I've been trying to tell you. I know you put stupid fey magic on my house, and I want you to remove it."

"My magic isn't stupid!" He huffs, turning on his heel. "I don't need this. I'm out of here." The glamour wraps around him, thick and shining, contorting the air around him, making him shimmering like a mirage. It hides him from human eyes, but not from Keith.

Lance only gets a few hurried stomps away before Keith calls out, "I can still see you."

Lance freezes. Turning slowly. Eyes wide— and fearful? He looks... scared? Scared of _Keith?_

"You can...?"

"Yes, now _fix my house_."

Lance swallows thickly. He turns slowly, backing away from Keith as one might a wild animal. He looks on edge. Wary. _Terrified_. Keith frowns at him, but that only seems to make Lance flinch. "You're... you're an ironblood."

It's not a question, and Keith doesn't answer it like one.

"F-Fine. I'll undo it." Lance says, straightening, lifting his chin, trying to piece together a shabby illusion of confidence. But Keith can see him shaking. It's... weird. He snaps his fingers, and a cold rush of air sweeps past him.

The wind is violent, nearly knocking him off his feet. He stumbles, throwing his arms up to shield his face from the onslaught of dust. His hair whips around, stinging his cheeks.

When the wind dies down and he opens his eyes once more, Lance is gone.

It's... weird.

* * *

He doesn't see Lance for a long time, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten.

His dreams are haunted by that last look of terror and by the lighthearted giggle that drifts on a cool breeze.

He's getting better at drawing. His newest foster parents got him a sketchbook for his fourteenth birthday. He likes to sit in places and draw strangers. He thinks he's getting pretty good at it.

He draws Lance the most, but it never looks right coming from his memory. He tears out those pages and burns them.

That's another thing he's discovered: fire. His magic lends itself toward flames and heat. And also blood? He doesn't really understand that one yet. It's not like he has anyone to ask.

He stubbornly refuses to admit that he misses Lance, but he knows he does.

* * *

Lance finds him one day at the local park.

He's sitting against a tree, knees pulled up with his sketchbook propped against them, idly drawing a woman sitting on a bench not too far away. When a shadow falls over him, the temperature dropping enough to make him shiver, he looks up, a scowl pinching his features and a sharp comment on his tongue—

Only to have the breath rush from his lungs. "You're back..."

He's exactly as Keith remembers him. Tall and proud. He stand over him with his hands on his hips, chin lifted, as if daring Keith to— try something? He's not sure. He's too busy trailing his eyes over the curve of his pursed lips, trying to memorize the dip of his cupid's bow. Wondering how he could've forgotten the slope of his nose or the sharp lines of his jaw.

His features are all just a fraction too sharp to be human, but far closer than a lot of the fey Keith has seen. That means he's a high fey, right? The most powerful ones are always the ones who look the most human. It's deceptive, but that's in their nature.

Keith's gaze lingers on the minuscule diamond shimmer of glamour on his skin. At the collection of them high on his cheekbones and ears, wondering what they hide. Are his ears pointy? He finds himself hoping they are. And what about his hair? The chestnut locks are practically infused with the shimmering sheen of glamour, catching the light every time the strands sway with the breeze.

And those _eyes_. In all his attempts to draw Lance from memory, he's never been able to get the eyes right. Looking at him now, he's not sure he ever will. There's a depth to them, a fractal in his irises, a storm and sea that Keith doesn't think he'll ever be good enough to capture.

Lance is... pretty. For a fey.

That's another thing. Keith has learned that he likes pretty boys.

It's a recent realization that makes facing Lance now a little more difficult.

"Of course, I am," Lance says, cocking a hip out to the side. He still dresses like he's never heard of modern fashion. Though, if he's a court fey, then Keith supposes he hasn't. It works on him, though. "I still owe you, and I need to settle this before anyone finds out."

Looking at him for too long feels like staring into the sun. Keith looks down, flipping his sketchbook to a new page and putting pencil to paper. "Why?"

There's a light scoff from above. "Because my mother would lock me away, and the court would mock me mercilessly, and probably come after you..." His voice trails off into a mumble, then a pause. His feet shift in Keith's peripheral vision, and he hears Lance clear his throat. Voice confident again. Boisterous. Full of false bravado. "Alright, ironblood. What'd you want from me?"

Something itches beneath Keith's skin. A warm, bubbling heat. It crawls up the back of his neck and awakens butterflies in his chest. Is Lance... protecting him? Keeping his heritage a secret? He was told that fey would kill him if they found out...

He lifts his head, looking away from the beginnings of his sketch. He frowns, brows furrowing as he tilts his head. "Why are you afraid of me?"

Lance purses his lips tight for a moment, expression looking sour. For a court fey, he's not very good at concealing his emotions. "Ironbloods are dangerous," he says stiffly.

"Fey are dangerous," Keith fires back.

He meets Lance's stormy eyes, stubbornly refusing to look away. Unblinking. Unafraid. Lance, despite all his chaos, has never given him reason to be afraid. Lance sets his jaw, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, but says nothing.

Their staring contest continues without a word. Both know they're right. Both know the other is right, too. Neither has anything to say.

Finally, Lance sighs, shifting his weight and crossing his arms over his chest as he looks away. "Look, just... accept the debt is paid and all this can be over."

"If you're that desperate to pay your debt, why don't you just _say_ it's been paid?" Keith challenges, lifting his chin a fraction higher.

Lance glares at him. "It doesn't work like that."

"Yes, it does. You've done several things to pay me back. Even if I didn't want them, you could've just said that the debt was paid. That's what fey _do_. They twist up meanings to fit what they want. You could've called us even after you cleaned my house by making everything disappear. But you didn't."

Lance scoffs, rolling his eyes. Refusing to make eye contact. "Look at you, all caught up on faerie laws and politics," he mumbles.

Keith smirks. "My dad taught me a lot."

Lance glances at him, one eyebrow raised. "Was he fey?"

"No," Keith frowns, looking back down at his sketchbook, lightly drawing the lines of Lance's cupid's bow. "That was my mom. I never knew her."

"Oh..."

"So why don't you just call us even?"

Lance doesn't answer, and in his silence, realization dawns on him. Slow and steady. A sunrise slowly chasing away the gray darkness and filling understanding with color. He looks up, pencil still, lips parted as he says softly, "You don't want to."

"That's ridiculous," Lance says, scoffing and laughing, but it's far too loud, far too hollow. "Why would a high fey of the summer court _want_ to be indebted to anyone?"

Keith recognizes it as the redirect that it is. His dad always warned him of this. That fey can't lie, so they talk around what they cannot say. "I don't know," Keith says calmly, lips twitching upward as he lifts a brow. "Why don't you tell me?"

"No fey likes being in debt."

"Yet you refuse to call us even."

"Why won't you just tell me what you want?!"

"Why won't you just tell me why you're still here?"

Lance huffs, dropping into a crouch in front of Keith. He balance on the balls of his feet, arms crossed over his chest as he stares at Keith, now on eye level. Lips twisted into a frown, he says, "You're stubborn."

Keith can't hold his smirk back. "So are you."

"You're reckless. Challenging a fey like this."

" _You're_ reckless. Hanging out with an ironblood."

"We're not _hanging out_ ," Lance's shoulders hunch, pulling up to his ears as he pouts— _pouts_ , with a pursed bottom lip and everything. It's cute. Very cute. It does weird things to Keith's insides.

He looks down, heart unable to handle staring at him for too long. He moves the pencil tip across the paper, eager to capture at least the outline of Lance's likeness before he disappears again. Finding comfort in the drag of graphite and the light scratch against paper.

"I don't want anything," he mumbles.

Lance huffs, whole body slumping dramatically in Keith's peripheral vision. " _Keeeeith_ , you have to want _something_."

"Nope."

"Come on, what'd you want? Just tell me. Keith. Keith. _Keith_." He starts jabbing Keith's knee with a finger, growing bolder until he's grabbing Keith's leg and shaking him with every repetition of his name.

Keith kicks out against him, but it's half hearted and Lance easily bats his foot away. He glares, lips pursed, and Lance meets it head on. Finally, Keith sighs, slouching against the tree. "You can't give me what I want."

"Try me."

Keith doesn't know why it slips out, doesn't know how he let this boy— this _fey_ — slip past his defenses enough to say it. He blames it on being exhausted, not just with Lance but with _everyone_. With everything. _Life_ is exhausting. And lonely.

"Friends," he says softly, and immediately regrets it. Immediately wishes he could swallow that word back down and never let it see the light of day. He can feel Lance's eyes on him, heavy and sharp. His chest feels far too exposed. He doesn't like it.

"Okay," Lance says, and Keith looks up, blinking in confusion.

"What?"

"I said _okay_." Lance sits up straighter, lifting his chin and holding out a hand. There's a smirk on his lips, even if his eyes look uncertain. "It's a deal. I'll be your friend."

Keith's heart hammers against his ribs, torn and raw, something burning and fluttering and feeling foreign—

"No," he says, watching as Lance's hand droops and his expression fades. Keith shakes his head, jaw set stubbornly. "I don't want you to be my friend because of a deal. That's not _real_. It's not the same if you're just... doing it because you have to." That would make him no different than Keith's classmates, than his foster families, than all the people who are just nice because he's the poor orphan kid.

"Okay..." Lance says slowly, nodding, expression pensive as he's lost in thought. Then he sits down in front of Keith, cross legged, arms crossed over his chest, and he _grins_. He grins so wide and bright and sudden that it takes Keith's breath away. "Then I'll be your friend for real."

"W-what?"

"It's perfect! I'll be your friend, and then I can figure out what you really want so I can pay back my debt. It's flawless."

"But I'm... an ironblood?" Keith says, cocking his head to the side, eyes narrowing. "Don't fey hate ironbloods?"

"Usually, yes, but... I like you," he says sheepishly, lips pursing as he glances away, voice unusually soft. "I like being here. I've never been allowed to visit the mortal realm, and I hate being at court. Being here is... it's _fun_. And as long as I'm indebted to you— if we're friends— then I have a reason to be here. So..." He glances back at Keith, strangely sheepish, strangely shy, voice quiet as he asks, "Friends?"

"Yeah," Keith breathes, feeling himself choking on the wings of butterflies and the prickle of heat creeping up his cheeks. He smiles, and it feels foreign, but it also feels right. "Friends."

When he's fourteen, Keith and Lance become friends.

* * *

Keith holds the camera up to his face, peering through the scope and focusing on the collapsed building in front of him. He never thought he'd come back here, but now that him and Lance are friends, he kind of wants to document where they first met. Luckily, his newest foster family lives close to this place.

Lance isn't as happy about being here, but he hadn't said no. He had just complained the whole way, grumbling as he trudged along behind Keith.

And now, as Keith moves forward into the clearing to get a good shot of the building, Lance stays at the tree-line.

"So let me get this straight," Keith says, moving to get a better angle on the collapsed part. "This Lotor guy, who isn't even really part of your court, tried to kill you, and yet no one is mad about it? You said you were Allura's best friend, and she doesn't even care?"

"She _cares_ ," Lance stresses, as if explaining it to a child. Overall, Keith thinks he's being too casual about the situation. "There's just nothing she can do about it. Lotor is the winter prince."

Keith lowers his camera, turning to give Lance a flat look. "He tried to _kill you_."

Lance stands next to a tree, leaning against the trunk. He huffs, waving Keith off with one hand. "He didn't do it directly. He literally _can't_. It's part of our laws. Unless I slight him or insult him, he can't harm me."

"He _literally_ lured you into a building filled with rusty iron and made it collapse on top of you."

"And he gave me a choice. He would've gladly helped me if I had promised him a favor, or agreed to stay away from Allura, or gave him my name. But I know better than to be in his debt. Rather an ironblood's than his. He's a snake."

"I still don't understand how no one is making a bigger deal about this," Keith mumbles as he turns back around, lifting his camera once more. "You told Allura about it, right?"

"Of course, I did. But she can't really do anything besides be wary of him. It's not really a big deal. This is what fey _do_. It's what courts do. Everyone is trying to get more power, and they get it by tricking others into debt. They do it by tearing down those above them. It's all trickery and schemes. Fake smiles and hollow words. I hate it."

Keith presses the button, and the camera flashes. He lowers it as the picture is printed out, plucking it out and waving it in the air as he walks back to Lance. "If you hate it so much, why don't you leave?"

Lance's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "It's not that easy. I promised to watch Allura's back in that snake pit, and my position in court has risen my family into higher standings. I can't just... _leave._ " He shrugs, glancing away, gaze lost and distant as he says softer, "That's why I like hanging out with you. You're... genuine. You have the ability to lie, but you don't. You're blunt and honest, and I feel like I know where I stand with you."

Warmth blooms in Keith's chest, unbidden and unwanted. "Even though I'm an ironblood?"

Lance glances at him sidelong, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, even then. Makes things kinda... dangerous, you know? It's exciting."

Keith snorts, rolling his eyes. "Sure." And then, to avoid the topic that's giving him butterflies, he holds up the developing picture for Lance to see. "This is what I meant when I said it printed pictures instantly."

Lance blinks, eyes focusing on the picture, brows furrowing pensively. "It's... so dark."

"It's still developing. Give it a minute."

Lance gingerly takes the picture from Keith, turning it over in his hands as he watches the image form. His lips are parted in awe, eyes filled with child-like wonder. "This is incredible... So humans have devices that can capture images this easily?"

"Yeah. There are better ones, but... this one is called a Polaroid camera. It makes those instant pictures. It's kind of outdated, but... my dad had one. I still have old Polaroid pictures of my mom. I guess there's just something about them that just... make me feel closer to them." He stares at the camera in his hands, fiddling with it as he mumbles, ignoring the heat that rises to his cheeks.

"That sounds really nice, Keith," Lance says, all soft and genuine and startlingly fond. It does nothing to help the flush taking to Keith's face. "Hey, can I take a picture?"

"Uh, sure." He pulls the strap over his neck, holding the camera out." You just look through here and press this button."

Lance takes it, holding it to his face and peering through the lens. After a moment, however, he lowers it, stepping next to Keith. "So it takes a picture of whatever this lens is pointing at?"

"Yeah."

"Perfect." He slings an arm over Keith's shoulder, pulling him flush against his side as he holds the camera up at arms length, pointing the lens at them.

There's a flash of light before he can protest, and then Lance is stepping away, shoving the camera back into his hands as he fans the new Polaroid in his hands.

"Hey!" Keith frowns, blinking away the spots in his eyes. "Give me that!"

"No!" Lance laughs, dancing away as Keith tries to snatch it from him. "It's our first picture together!"

"You didn't even warn me! I probably look stupid!"

"You always look stupid."

Keith chases Lance through the forest. He's fast, but Lance is nimble, and he moves through the forest like he was born for it. Which, in a lot of ways, Keith supposes that he was. He laughs in the wind, and after a while, even Keith can't keep up his scowl, finding solace in the fact that Lance can't see him smile.

When Lance stops abruptly, Keith runs into his back.

"What's wrong?" He asks when Lance doesn't move.

"I didn't do it right," Lance mutters, sounding... sad. Dejected. Pitiful in ways that makes Keith's chest hurt.

He peers over Lance's shoulder at the picture in his hands. There's a glaring white spot distorting most of Lance's face. He's not sure if it was Lance, the camera, a problem with the developing process, or Lance's glamour that ruined the picture. He feels... surprisingly disappointed. He would have liked to have a picture of Lance.

"We'll take a better one later," he says, butterflies erupting in his stomach when Lance turns to look at him. He's close enough that Keith can feel the heat radiating from him. He can't bring himself to meet his gaze. Not this close. He can't handle that bright grin this close.

"Really?" Lance breathes.

Keith just purses his lips and nods, stepping away and heading back into the forest, lifting the camera once more to his face to hide his blush.

* * *

He doesn't see Lance often. At least, not as often as he would like. He comes and goes with little warning. Appearing one day on a cool breeze, all smiles and shining eyes. He'll stay for a day. Maybe a few. Sometimes a week. And then one day he'll lift his head, turning as if listening, eyes distant, and he'll announce he has to leave.

He never knows when he'll be back again. He says the court is too unpredictable for that. He sneaks away as often as he can, but time is different between realms. It's hard to calculate.

But he always promises that he will, eventually, be back. And that's the hope that Keith clings to in the moments in between. In the moments where loneliness feels crushing. In the moments where boredom is heavy. In the moments where his heart aches with the echoed memory of a laugh like silver bells and a smile that makes his stomach tie itself in knots.

Keith isn't sure how Lance always manages to find him, no matter where he is, what city he's in, or what family he's staying with, but he always does. He stays with Keith, using his glamour to hide from Keith's foster families.

Keith shows him human things, teaches him stuff about the human world, and Lance is endlessly fascinated by it. Says he was never allowed in the mortal realm for some reason. Says his family would drag him back kicking and screaming if they knew he was spending time with Keith. He doesn't seem to care.

It doesn't take Keith long to realize that their friendship isn't just beneficial to him.

Keith gets a friend who actually understands him, who _knows_ about fey stuff and understands all the weird shit Keith sees. He gets a friend who doesn't think he's strange or crazy. Someone who doesn't judge him. Someone Keith feels like he can be himself around. Can explore his magic with. Someone who actually seems to enjoy his company.

And Lance? Lance gets a place away from the court to relax. A place away from the prying, selfish, cunning eyes of the fey. A place where he doesn't have to watch his words or his actions, where he doesn't have to second guess every little thing, picking apart everything for a hidden meaning. He can just... be himself. Keith never realized that was a luxury that few fey can afford.

He thinks... this friendship works well for them.

He thinks they bring out the best in each other.

He definitely knows being with Lance makes him happy.

He's not sure about all these other budding feelings that he's desperately trying to keep from blooming, but... he'll work on that.

* * *

Keith's palms are sweaty as he pays for his movie ticket, and strangely enough, it has nothing to do with the fact that Lance is walking inside next to him, fully glamoured and hidden.

Sneaking Lance into a movie theater so he only has to buy one ticket? Easy. He's not worried at all for Lance's disguise. He's seen enough fey to trust it. Been around Lance, specifically, enough to know to trust him and his magic.

He doesn't need to be an expert to know that Lance is powerful. Probably more powerful than he should be. Probably too powerful of a high fey to be hanging out with an ironblood. Probably powerful enough that Keith should be worried.

But he's not.

He has other worries. Like... the fact that this _kind of_ , sort of, maybe feels like a... date?

They've watched movies before. Lance is endlessly fascinated by them. Fey use illusion magic to project images and tell tales, but they don't have anything like this. It's a wholly new experience. Moving pictures on Keith's fifteen inch laptop screen? Lance is always _transfixed_. And Keith gets the immense enjoyment of showing him all sorts of genres, watching Lance experience them for the first time. His reactions are always so innocent and heartfelt, not having the prior experience to know what's coming or what to expect.

So movies? They've done that so many times by now. But it's always been in Keith's room. Or in the woods. Sometimes, when no one is home, they watch movies on the big screen TV in the living room.

But this? Going out to a public theater? It's entirely new.

And _yeah_ , he knows friends go to the movies together all the time, but... he's never really had close friends besides Lance, and going to the movies is _also_ a popular and traditional date thing, and Lance... Lance makes him feel a _lot_ of things. A lot of things that are definitely not friend things.

Still, he goes all out. He gets popcorn and a drink, using the money he's been saving up because this shit is expensive, just because he wants Lance to have a real human experience.

Lance follows along behind him while he waits in line and order, making commentary that only Keith can hear. It's a game Lance likes to play. Trying to get Keith to laugh or crack a smile or just _react_ when he's fully glamoured and no one can see him. Keith hates to admit that he usually wins.

Lance doesn't drop the glamour until they've taken their seats at the back of the theater.

He takes the popcorn. _"This is greasy and disgusting, and yet I can't stop eating it? What sort of human magic is this. How can something be so bad and yet so good?"_

He takes the soda. _"I still don't know how to feel about this. It's sweet, but falsely sweet? What is this flavor— and don't you dare just tell me Coke. What in the name of the Summer Mother is Coke? And the bubbles tickle my nose and burn my tongue, but it's not— Keith, stop laughing at me!"_

And the whole time his eyes remain fixed to the large screen, wide and awed. Even the commercials are fascinating at this size. The previews keep him enraptured. And when the lights go dark, the screen widens, and their movie begins, Lance gasps softly.

His reactions are many. Keith finds himself watching Lance out of the corner of his eye, enjoying how many expressions he makes. How he flinches and jumps when things move quickly or are suddenly loud. His smile is bright, relaxed at the edges with wonder. And his eyes shine so bright.

He leans in close, never once taking his eyes from the screen but whispering to Keith all the same. Close enough that their shoulders touch and he can practically feel Lance's breath against his skin. Close enough that he feels that strange warmth radiating from Lance.

Their fingers touch in the popcorn bucket. Lance doesn't seem to notice, but Keith feels his whole body flush.

When the movie gets intense, Lance grabs Keith's hand out of reflex, squeezing it as the suspense builds.

And Keith? His poor gay heart works overtime, tearing itself against his ribs. He knows his palm is sweating, and if this is going to be a common thing, he should start wearing gloves or something.

_It's not a date_ , he tells himself as Lance rests his head on Keith's shoulder. _It's not a date_.

* * *

"Is this a date?"

Keith chokes on his funnel cake. He beats a fist against his check, bending over and turned away as Lance gently pats his back. "What?" He finally asks, eyes burning but wide. His heart hammers, and he knows it has nothing to do with his coughing fit.

Lance smiles, small and coy, tilting his head as his eyes catch the last of the evening light. They shift and swirl, mischief churning in the depths. "Is this a date?"

Unfortunately, repeating it doesn't help Keith process it any easier. The gears in his head are jammed. 404 error. Blue screen. He stares at Lance blankly while his head tries to reboot, unintelligibly saying, "What?"

Lance rolls his eyes, but that smile— that devilish, wicked smile that's just gets wider at Keith's expense— remains in tact. "I _said_ , is this a date?"

"Why, um—" Keith clears his throat, sitting up a little straighter, busying himself by wiping the powdered sugar from his hands. "Why do you— think? That?" Smart. Smooth. Good going.

Keith's stomach is in knots. He's pretty sure his face is on fire.

Lance leans into his side, plucking the last of the funnel cake from the plate and chewing thoughtfully before speaking. "I've seen enough human movies to know what dating is, Keith. It's essentially courting. And this," he gestures to the state fair around them, the flashing lights and crowds of people. "This is a popular human date. So... are we on a date?" He turns to Keith then, leaning in close, chin tilted down and gazing up through his long, dark lashes. His voice lowers as he whispers, "Are you courting me, Keith?"

He swallows hard. His stomach flips. His palms are definitely sweaty, and he's so fucking grateful that he invested in some cool leather fingerless gloves. "I, um..." He stammers. He can't find words. _Fuck_ , words are so hard when Lance is this close. "Do you... want it to be?"

"Do _you?_ " Lance challenges, one eyebrow raised. Smirk still in place.

Keith's dad always warned him that the fey might be the death of him, but he never thought it would be like this.

He looks away. Turns his head to hide his burning cheeks because it's the only thing he can think to do to regain some sort of composure. He rests an elbow on the table, putting his chin in his palm and using his hand to cover half of his face. Lance just leans into his side, tilting his head to rest it on Keith's shoulder. He can feel those eyes on him, waiting for an answer.

"Maybe..." Keith mumbles.

"It's a yes or no question, Keith. Answer it."

Keith sighs, huffing out a breath. It's a false exasperation. A desperate attempt to seem unbothered. He knows it isn't fooling anyone. "Yes..."

He hears Lance's soft chuckle, low and breathy, and his chest constricts. Lance's hand trails down his arm, fingers twining with his own. "Good," he mumbles. "Me, too."

Then suddenly Lance is standing, pulling Keith to his feet. He barely manages to find his balance before Lance is dragging him away, weaving through the crowd, hand-in-hand, fingers intertwined.

"Where are we going?"

Lance turns, eyes dark and lidded as he smirks over his shoulder. Keith's heart does flips. He stumbles as his knees threaten to give out. "Since this is a date, I'm going to win you a prize. That's what humans do, right?"

Keith swallows, nodding when he can't find his voice.

They spend the rest of the evening exploring the fair. Lance is fascinated by everything, determined to try the food and listen to the live music, and cause chaos with the animals. He stares wistfully at the rides, all lit up in the night and flashing with colors.

Keith ends up dragging him on the ferris wheel, holding Lance close and wrapping his hoodie around the safety bar so the metal won't touch him.

They stop at the top, and Lance is mesmerized by the lights below as Keith is mesmerized by him.

The little stuffed red lion Lance won him in a game of ring toss sits in his lap.

His arms rests over Lance's shoulders.

Lance's head rests on his shoulders.

When he's fifteen, Keith and Lance have their first date.

* * *

"This is it?" Keith asks, one eyebrow raised.

"What do you mean, _this is it?_ " Lance is full of indignant rage, comically sputtering and flailing, eyes wide and aghast. Keith has to put a hand to his mouth to hide his smile.

Lance can be wholly ridiculous. Definitely dramatic. The more time he spends with Keith, the more expressive he gets. The more _ridiculous_ he gets. It creates this tight little bubble of warmth in Keith's chest. A hidden gem of happiness and pride that's been building. Knowing that Lance feels comfortable enough around him to act in ways he never would around other fey.

" _Keith_ ," Lance stresses, throwing his arms out to gesture to the little ring of mushrooms. "This is a _faerie ring!_ A dimensional portal into a realm beyond your comprehension!"

Keith rolls his eyes, letting his hand drop once his smile has gotten under control. "I think I can comprehend it just fine. I'm half fey, remember?"

"Yeah, but you've never been to the faerie realm."

"And I never want to. They'd probably kill me on sight. Or worse." He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. Lance falls silent, not bothering to dispute it. Even if he wanted to, he can't. He can't tell lies. Keith shrugs it off, lifting his camera and peering through the lens until the ring is in focus. "I guess I just thought it would be... I don't know. Bigger?"

"I'm not stupid enough to bring you to a bigger one," Lance scoffs. "I care about you too much to risk you like that. So you're just going to have to deal with a small ring."

Keith's heart stutters as his finger presses the button, camera flashing. He lowers it slowly, taking the Polaroid carefully before turning to glance at Lance, heat on his face and eyes wide. "You care about me?"

Lance looks surprised, and Keith watches that surprise melt into something softer. Something incredibly fond. He never dared imagine anyone would look at him like that. Let alone someone so beautiful. Let alone a _fey_.

"Of course, I do." He steps forward, closing the distance between them. Keith can feel the heat radiating from him, but he still shivers when Lance reaches up to tuck his hair behind an ear, fingertips lightly caressing the side of his face. His lips quirk then, tugging up into that mischievous smile that Keith knows so well, coupled with that dark, lidded gaze that he's learning he loves. "Now close your eyes. I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?"

"Yes."

"I'm not supposed to take gifts from fey," Keith says, but he sounds breathy, voice wavering as Lance steps closer.

"You can always pay me back in kind."

"I guess it depends on what the surprise is."

"Close your eyes and find out."

He hesitates, but not because he's wary or uncertain. Not because he doesn't trust Lance. He _does_ trust Lance. Probably a little too much. So much that it's sometimes frightening.

No, he hesitates so he can take a moment to memorize how Lance looks this close. The sharp angles of his face. His long, thick lashes framing lidded eyes. Gemstone irises that are so dark and hungry and swirling with something that makes Keith's insides twist and his heart race. Lance's hand cups his jaw, skin velvety soft and fingers long and gentle. He can feel the light, teasing brush of Lance's nose against his own. Lance's breath fanning out against his lips...

He closes his eyes, breath still and heart in his throat.

The air here is alive with a hum of energy. It vibrates from the faerie ring. A low, bass note that's impossible to hear and impossible to ignore. One he feels more in his bones than hears with his ears. It dances across his skin, teasing and tempting, tickling his own magic that shifts beneath his skin, reacting instinctively to the call.

There's a power in this small clearing in the forest.

There's a strong power that radiates from the faerie ring.

It's nothing compared to what Keith feels when Lance kisses him for the first time.

Soft lips, perfectly and gently melding against his own. A mouth that's hot and perfect. A body, firm and lithe, radiating heat that turns to fire when it presses flush against Keith's. Fingers that weave into his hair, cradling his head. A solid arm that wraps around his waist when his balance wavers. His own hands go to Lance's chest, sliding up to wrap around his neck.

It's a jolt through his system. Sharp and hot and sudden. Lightning. A shock of ice. And then it melts. His body is left tingling, _aching_ , as the heat settles in, simmering beneath his skin and pooling in his gut.

Lance's kiss is rich like honey. Smooth and gentle, hedging on the edge of desperation, of neediness. He holds Keith like he's something precious, something special. Kisses him like he's uncertain but knows he can't stop all the same.

And Keith pushes back into him. Uncoordinated and sloppy. Trying to follow his lead as Lance slowly leads him through the motions. Tries to show Lance that he's right there with him. Uncertain but unwilling to stop. That _Lance_ is something precious. That _Lance_ is something special.

His lungs burn as he forgets how to breathe, not quite sure if he can. His heart races. His gut burns. His legs shake. His skin tingles. He feels so, so much, and it's all centered on the places where they touch.

On the lips moving against his own.

It lasts for an eternity, and yet Lance still pulls away too soon.

Keith watches him go. Frozen to the spot. Eyes lidded and lips parted. Trying to breathe. Trying to think. He wants to say something, but there's nothing to say. Not when he's already poured it all into that kiss.

That one, incredible kiss.

He backs up slowly, holding Keith's gaze with a heavy, lidded one of his own. His lips look a little red, and a delightful shiver of pride runs through him upon the realization that he did that. He made Lance look like that. All breathless and dazed and _happy_.

"I'll see you soon, Keith." Lance says his name like a prayer. Like a secret. Like he can still taste Keith on his tongue. "Try not to forget about me when I'm gone." It's teasing. Light hearted. No doubt laughing at how dazed Keith probably looks.

Still, he manages to smile. A small thing. He can still feel the heat of Lance on his lips. "Like I ever could."

Lance steps backwards over the faerie ring, and a shimmering veil of translucent energy whisks him away. A rush of wind. A chiming of silver bells that he can't quite hear. A surge of energy that rushes over him, making his hair stand on end. Until Lance fades to nothing. Until Keith is left with nothing but a fading breeze and the ghost of Lance's touch.

He finds a blue forget-me-not in his hair, tucked behind his ear. Pristine and perfect.

His first kiss is nothing like they are in the movies.

It's so much _more_.

* * *

Keith has gotten better at sketching. At art in general, really. But Lance is his favorite subject. There's something otherworldly beautiful about him. Something... well, inhuman. He still can't quite capture it on paper, but he keeps trying. Keeps trying to get those angles just right and make that complex personality shine through the graphite.

And... okay, so it's also an excuse for him to sit and stare at Lance for hours without feeling embarrassed.

Lance doesn't complain when they sit like this. Alone in the woods. Without words. It's peaceful. It's serene. It's cozy in a way that feels like... _home_. It's been a long time since Keith has felt that anywhere, and he's finding more and more he feels that with Lance.

He sits against a tree while Lance perches on a rock, playing with Keith's Gameboy. There's a pinch to his brows. The tip of his tongue sticks out in concentration. Yet he still manages to look so wholly relaxed.

It warms Keith's heart.

Then suddenly the moment _snaps_.

He's not sure what causes it, but Lance's head suddenly whips up, and he nearly topples off the rock as he spins around. Keith freezes, body going deathly still at the sudden tension in the air, radiating from Lance. He stares off into the woods, eyes narrowing, lips pursing—

And then he's suddenly running, leaving the Gameboy abandoned on the rock as he sprints away. "Stay here!" He hisses as he rushes past.

"Lance—!"

" _Stay here_."

And then he's gone, and like hell Keith is going to stay there. He's on his feet in seconds, impulse and instinct overriding his surprise. He leaves his sketchbook on the ground, sprinting off into the woods after Lance.

Lance is fast, especially in the forest, and he had a head start. It takes Keith a moment to find him, and when he does, he hears the voices first.

"This is where you've been?" He doesn't recognize that voice. It sounds masculine. Older. Carrying an air of authority that isn't unkind. Worried and apprehension, perhaps, but the kind that comes from genuine concern.

"Why are you here?" Lance asks. It's not an answer. It's a deflection.

Keith slows as he approaches, keeping behind trees and moving as silently as he can until they're within sight. Lance stands with a taller man— a fey— broad and muscular. His shimmering glamour is thin, only shining where the light streams through the trees to catch it. Much like Lance's. A high fey, then.

"Allura sent me," the fey says. "She's been worried about you."

"Am I not allowed my privacy?"

"You are, but you've been leaving more and more often. Allura wants to give you the freedom, but the court is starting to notice. They'll start watching you, either to see what Allura might be up to or to use something against you. She sent me here to find out what you've been doing. You know it's not safe for you here."

"I'm not in any immediate danger—"

"You're in the _human realm_ , Lance. Your grandmother—"

"Warned me about ironbloods, _not_ the human realm. This place isn't inherently dangerous to me."

"This is where most ironbloods live. You never know when you might meet one. They'll know what you are long before you know what they are."

"I'm being careful, Shiro."

"Being careful doesn't account for the actions of others—"

"Keith would never hurt me!" Lance snaps, full of sharp fury and fierce confidence. It makes Keith's chest swell.

"Who's Keith?” Lance falls silent, pursing his lips and glaring at the other fey. The man— Shiro?— frowns, narrowed eyes calculating as they look Lance over. "You've been coming here to meet with a boy..." He says it slowly, like he's extracting the truth from Lance's silence and putting it together, piece by careful piece. "This Keith... he's an ironblood."

Lance can't deny, but nor does he redirect. He simply squares his shoulders, crossing his arms as he lifts his chin. "And he wouldn't hurt me."

Shiro looks conflicted. Uncertain. Reproachful and cautious. Lifting his hands placatingly and using his words like one might try to soothe a wild animal. "Lance, what you're doing isn't safe—"

"You cannot command me, Shiro."

"No, but Allura can."

Lance stiffens, and even from where he hides, Keith can see his jaw clench. A tension sparks between them. Two fey having a stare down, both stubborn, neither willing to give an inch.

"You should come back with me."

"No."

"Once I explain this to Allura—"

"Don't!" Lance breaks, voice rising in pitch. His air of stoic confidence shatters, desperation oozing between the cracks. "Shiro, _please_. Don't tell her. She'll forbid me from coming back— I _have_ to come back."

Shiro's brows furrow, curiosity getting the best of him. Keith can see his steely expression waning. "Why? Why is this boy so special to you?"

"Because he... Because I... he just _is_."

"He's an _ironblood_ , Lance," Shiro says, reproachful but not unkind.

"And _you_ grew up with humans. You know they're not all bad."

"Yes, but... the prophecy says an ironblood will be your downfall. We can't ignore that."

"It won't be Keith."

"You don't know that—"

"I _do!_ "

"I won't hurt him!" Keith freezes at the sound of his own voice, spilling past his lips and burning with a fierce anger and tasting like impulse. He snaps his jaw shut, teeth clenched, but the damage is already done. Both fey have turned to look at him. Both with surprise. Shiro's mingling with caution, and Lance's tinged with frustration and fear.

It's too late to hide, so Keith steps out from his hiding spot, standing as tall and proud as he can under the weight of their eyes. He strides forward, not stopping until he's at Lance's side. He takes his hand gently, pushing his fingers into Lance's, weaving them together and squeezing tight.

To reassure them both.

To give them both courage.

To ground them both.

He faces Shiro, glaring up at him. Jaw set. Gaze unwavering. He squares his shoulders and stares him down. Refusing to budge. There's a fierce heat coiling through his veins. A wild fire barely kept in check.

"I would _never_ hurt Lance," he says, a bite to his words and tongue dripping in venom. He feels those words resonate in his chest. Feels them sink into his core. A vibration at the center of his being. They taste like honesty and ring like the truth.

Lance's hand squeezes his, and then suddenly Lance is taking a step forward, carefully putting himself between Keith and Shiro. "You're stupid, you know that?" Lance mutters. "I told you to _stay put_."

Keith scoffs, "And you really thought that would work?"

Lance sighs, and from the movement of his head, Keith can tell he's rolling his eyes. "Reckless. Hotheaded. Stubborn." They don't sound like insults or jabs. They sound like endearments. "Shiro, this is Keith. Keith, this is Shiro."

Never taking his eyes off Shiro, Keith leans forward, saying to Lance in a low voice, "Can he really take you away?"

"No, but he can tell Allura."

Shiro looks them over, gaze roaming between them. His eyes are like molten silver, in constant movement much like Lance's. He takes in Lance's face, and then Keith's, before moving to their stances, and finally settling on their joined hands.

"You've really become attached to him, haven't you?" He mutters, thoughtfully, almost sorrowful.

"I have," Lance replies, voice tired and weighted, severe and resigned, but filled with _so much_ fondness.

"And you're certain— _confident_ — that he won't hurt you?"

Lance doesn't hesitate. "I am."

"And you," Shiro's eyes slide to Keith's, jaw set, expression suddenly more severe, more imposing. "Keith. What is Lance to you?"

Keith doesn't hesitate. "Everything."

Shiro sighs, rolling his eyes skyward as he tilts his head back. "I don't like this."

"I know," Lance says.

"Allura won't like it."

"I know."

"But I won't tell her." Lance opens his mouth, brows furrowed and body tense, but Shiro holds up a hand, shaking his head. "No, this isn't a gift. This isn't a deal. I'm not holding this over you. This isn't a bargaining chip. This is my decision to make, and I've made it."

Lance relaxes, whole body practically melting, becoming boneless as he slumps. His smile comes easily then, blooming wide and bright, earnest and raw. Shiro looks startled by it, eyes wide and lips parting, gaze flickering quickly to Keith, just long enough for him to catch that spark of understanding and awe.

"I should go," he says, gathering himself as he clears his throat. "I'll have to think about what to tell Allura."

"Tell her that I'm fine," Lance says, turning to glance over his shoulder at Keith, squeezing his hand and smiling that private smile that makes Keith's insides go molten. "Tell her that I'm happy."

* * *

Lance groans, flopping backwards on the bed, making the mattress bounce. Keith looks up from his textbook, one eyebrow raised. "Party wipe again?"

Lance's features pinch, frowning at the ceiling as he crosses his arms over his chest. The Gameboy lies abandoned next to him. "This gym is too hard."

"Did you ever pick up anything besides water Pokemon?"

Lance's lip twists, half a scowl and half a grimace. "No..."

Keith snorts a short laugh. "Then you're never going to beat that gym. Get some variety in your team."

"But I like _water Pokemon_."

"You're a summer court fey. Get some fire Pokemon or something."

Lance scoffs, rolling his head to the side and glaring at Keith. "Just because I'm summer court doesn't mean I have fire affinity."

Keith raises a brow. That's news to him. He shrugs. "I didn't know that."

"Really?"

Keith gives him a flat look. "Lance, how would I know anything about fey courts and what abilities they have? I never knew my fey mom, and my dad died before he could teach me whatever he knew about them."

Lance's face twists into a wince. "Right." He sits up then, shifting on the bed so he's facing Keith, legs crossed. "So, _yes_ , I'll admit the summer court is sort of associated with fire, but also with water. The winter court is commonly known for ice and lightning affinities. But on the whole, there are a lot of fey abilities that span across both courts. Like illusion magic, and hypnotism, and strength, and speed, and plant growth." He shrugs, small smile on his lips. "Just depends on the fey."

"So what about you."

That small smile blooms, unfurling proud as his back straightens, chest puffing out. His hands rest on his ankles as he slowly rocks back and forth. "I have some fire affinity, but mostly water. The usual glamour and illusion stuff. One of my grandmothers was a siren, so I have some natural charm." He smirks then, dark and sultry, accenting it with a wink and ruining it with a waggle of his brows. Keith rolls his eyes, playfully shoving Lance with his foot and ignoring the heat in his belly. "I'm connected closely with Allura, so I get some of her abilities and her power kind of enhances my own. It's why fey always want to get closer to the royals. The higher the fey, the more power they have. It comes off them in waves, and if they like you, you can syphon some of that power to boost yourself. Allura gives me and Romelle more power than anyone. Through her, I have better illusion magic, some affinity for sound manipulation, minor healing, and some memory stuff."

"That's pretty cool." He closes his textbook, setting it aside and pulling his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. "Do you also have ice magic?" Lance stiffens, smile fading enough to make Keith frown. "What?"

Lance shifts, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck as he looks away. "Yes... I do," he mumbles.

"Is that... a bad thing?"

"Not bad, no. It's just... ice is seen as a winter court thing. If I was full blooded summer court with ice affinity, that would be one thing. But my grandmother was winter court, so I have mixed blood. Having both ice and fire abilities makes me duel natured, and most fey are wary of that."

Keith snorts, lifting a brow and smirking when Lance glances at him. "Sounds like the same kind of bullshit they say about ironbloods. I guess they just don't like half breeds of any kind."

Lance smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. There's something tense about it. Something sad. Something he's not saying. "No, I guess they don't."

Keith doesn't like that look on him, so he goes with the first subject change he can think of. Something that's been on his mind for a while. Something he's reminded of because of this conversation. "I have a question." When Lance cocks his head to the side curiously, Keith pushes back the sleeve of his right arm and holds it out, pointing to the birthmark on his inner forearm. "Do you know what this means? My dad said it was a birthmark, but it looks too... deliberate to just be coincidence. It feels weird when I use my magic, so I think it might be fey."

Lance's eyes widen as they fall on the mark. He scoots forward, until they're knee-to-knee, and takes Keith's arm in his hands. He holds it gently, reverently running his fingers along Keith's skin, not quite touching the mark. Keith shivers at the touch.

"I recognize this," Lance whispers, tracing the outline of it with a fingertip. "It's the symbol of the Marmora clan."

"The... who?"

"The Marmora clan is a group of fey who split away from the winter court centuries ago. They used to be high ranking fey, but they didn't agree with King Zarkon's rule and his hatred of mixed bloods."

"Does that mean they're summer court fey now?"

Lance shakes his head. "No, they didn't join the summer court. If anything, they're wild fey now, but they have a long history with the winter court so most people still see them as winter fey. They actively fight back against winter court rulings, though. As much as fey can with how bound we are to our laws. They protect a lot of mixed bloods and ironbloods from Zarkon's court."

Keith stares at the mark on his arm. "So my mom..."

"Was probably Marmora."

Keith pulls his arm back, running a thumb over his birthmark. "I always thought she was summer court because of my fire magic."

Lance shrugs, leaning forward to brush the hair away from Keith's face. "Like I said, elemental abilities are more common in specific courts, but not limited to them. Your mom could have had mixed blood herself."

"Maybe..." Keith feels an ache in his chest. A bone deep chasm that's never really gone away. He's learned to ignore it, learned to live with it, but there are times when it still echoes with a silent cry. "I wish I had known her."

Lance's eyes are sad, his smile sympathetic, and now it's his turn to change the flow of the conversation. "So does this mean you have blood magic?"

"I don't know," he says with a shrug. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he taps into the magic that lives in his veins, that bundles in his core. It surges to his arm, itching like fire and needles beneath his skin, sharp at his palm where he summons his blade. He grits his teeth against the pain, knowing that he did that too quickly when he's not entirely sure how to control it, but unable to resist showing off.

The look of startled surprise on Lance's face when a dagger suddenly flashes to life in Keith's palm makes it worth it.

He smirks. "Does this count?"

"That _definitely_ counts," Lance breathes, eyes alight. "What else can you do?"

Keith's confidence wavers, smirk falling to a pensive frown. "I... don't know."

Lance reaches forward, snatching his wrist and pulling him off the bed, dragging him toward the door. "Well then let's go find out!"

Keith is helpless against that excited smile.

* * *

Lance's honied lips are soft as flower petals, and Keith can't get enough. He can never get enough. Yet no matter how delicate they may be, they're firm when they press against Keith's. Certain and sure. Desperate and needy. Taking kiss after kiss like he needs them to breathe. Like he'll die without the taste of Keith's lips on his tongue.

He knows that his own chapped lips and sloppy coordination can't compared to Lance's, but that never seems to matter. Lance never seems to mind. He's always just as greedy and desperate for it as Keith is. Hands groping and clinging and holding him still while he devours his mouth.

Keith thinks he's getting better. He should be with how often they end up making out. He's definitely gaining confidence. How can he not when Lance squirms in his arms, gasps, and makes the prettiest sounds? All the while looking absolutely dazed and wrecked whenever Keith pulls away.

Lance radiates warmth, but so does Keith. Their skin _burns_ where they touch, but they can't get enough. Hands slide beneath clothes, fingertips eagerly seeking more skin, more contact. They build that spark between them into a wild fire, fast, hot, and consuming.

Lance enjoys peeling Keith's clothes off.

Keith enjoys how Lance can just make his own disappear.

He never thought he'd end up being one of those teenagers who sneaks a boy into his room to make out, but he also never thought he'd ever do something like this with a fey.

He was wrong on both accounts, and he can't bring himself to care.

Not when Lance is in his arms, writhing and gasping. Muttering his name so sweetly. Melting against Keith until they're flush. Fingertips clutching needy and teasing playfully. So warm and pliable in Keith's hands. So firm and solid and _perfect_ in his arms.

He never wants to let go.

Never wants this to stop.

Wants this wild fire to burn on forever because Lance— Lance makes him feel _alive_. Makes him _happy_.

It scares the living shit out of him, but he also doesn't care.

When he bites at Lance's neck, sucking a dark mark into his soft skin, and Lance gasps so sweetly and sighs his name, arms wrapping so tight and trusting around his neck as he bears his throat, Keith knows that no matter how terrifying it all is, he's ready and willing to take the plunge.

He doesn't care that he's only sixteen.

He doesn't care that Lance is everything he should avoid.

He doesn't care what anyone else might say.

Lance is... Lance is something special. And Keith wants to hold him close for as long as he can.

* * *

"How does it look?" Lance asks, standing in the middle of Keith's room and giving a dramatic twirl. He stops, striking a pose, giving Keith a comically smoldering look over his shoulder, holding the jacket tight around him.

"You look like a dork," Keith says with a quirk of his lips.

Lance deflates, shoulders slumping as he whines, " _Keeeeith!_ "

He chuckles, soft and breathy. "It looks good, Lance. I'm glad it fits."

"Well, if anyone can figure out what human size I'd wear, it would probably be the one who can never keep his hands off of me." He smirks, shooting Keith a wink.

He feels heat prickle at the back of his neck, but he can't taper his smile. "Shut up."

Lance laughs, looking back to the mirror. He turns back and forth, looking at himself from all angles. "I actually almost look human."

Keith huffs a short laugh. Lance will never look human to him. He's too unearthly beautiful. "More than you did when we first met. You stuck out like a sore thumb."

"It's not my fault I didn't know how humans dressed!"

"You're a lot better at it now."

"Thanks to you."

Lance moves across the room on slow, measured steps, smirking when Keith's eyes pointedly roam down to his long legs before moving back up. He crawls onto the bed, settling on Keith's lap. Ass on his thighs. Knees bracketing his hips. Arms coming up to lastly rest over his shoulders. His fingers move through Keith's hair, tilting his head as he smiles with lidded eyes.

"I have something for you, too."

"You don't have to—"

"You know I do. You give me something. I give you something. Equal exchange. It's fey law, and you can't fight me on this."

Keith purses his lips, but doesn't protest. He knows he won't win. Every gift, every kindness, is an open ended deal. Even if it's just something Keith wants to do for his boyfriend, he knows Lance will give something back.

The only open ended deal left between them is the biggest one: when Keith saved Lance's life three years ago. Lance still hasn't called that deal even, and neither of them bring it up.

Lance tucks Keith's hair behind an ear, finger grazing gently against the shell of his ear, causing shivers to erupt down his spine. He then reaches to his own ear, pulling off one of the cuffs he wears.

It's beautiful. Gold woven into a floral, vine-like design, meant to crawl beautifully around the shell of his ear. Where a flower blooms at the center, there's a purple gemstone.

Lance reaches forward, slipping it onto the shell of Keith's ear. His fingers linger, smile soft as he says, "There. Perfect."

"Lance," Keith breathes, eyes wide. "That's... too much."

"No, it's perfect."

" _No_ ," Keith insists, shaking his head. "That's your fucking _jewelry_. It's... it's _gold_ with a _gemstone_. I just got you some old jacket I found at a thrift store."

"But I _like_ this jacket, and _I_ get to decide if an exchange is equivalent." He looks smug about it, shifting his hand to cup Keith's jaw, thumb ghosting along his bottom lip.

Keith frowns. "I still don't think it's enough..."

The jacket had been a spur of the moment impulse buy at a thrift shop. Lance's clothes are all glamour, and he's gotten better at picking simple and modern aesthetics to blend in as a simple teenager. But he's always had this longing look in his eyes whenever he picks over Keith's clothes. Going so far as to wear them sometimes when he visits. He says it's a weird sensation, having actual physical clothes on his skin instead of ones crafted from magic. Weird, but pleasant.

So when Keith had seen a green jacket in the store for cheap, he couldn't help but buy it. It's a little large on Lance, but it suits him. Swallows him up and makes him seem more... human. More touchable. Less like a dream to Keith and more like something he can actually have.

Still, no matter how much Lance might like the jacket, it's definitely not enough for a piece of fey crafted jewelry of actual gold and jewels. The gemstone is purple. He's seen it on Lance's ear enough times. A deep beautiful amethyst that was nearly the same kinda purple as—

"I have an idea," he says, already putting his hands on Lance's hips and shoving him off his lap. Lance makes a noise of protest, but flops onto the bed, watching Keith curiously as he moves to his nightstand, pulling out a bag of marbles.

They're nothing special, really. Just marbles. But they're old. They were a gift from Keith's dad for his fifth birthday. He's carried them with him ever since. More sentimental than practical.

He digs through them, looking for Lance's favorite one. He's looked through them plenty of times. Knows exactly what they mean to Keith.

He pulls out a purple one. Nearly the exact same shade as the gem imbedded in Keith's new ear cuff.

"Here," he says, scooting back to Lance and pressing the small glass sphere into Lance's palm.

"Keith," he breathes, eyes wide. "I can't take this. It was a gift from your dad—"

"I want you to have it," he says, folding Lance's fingers over it. "This marble and the jacket for the ear cuff. Things we can use to keep each other close when you're back in the faerie realm."

Lance's lips twist, expression pinching. "That hardly seems like a fair trade."

"It is," Keith insists, reaching up to cup the back of Lance's neck. He leans forward to press their foreheads together. "You know you can't wear the jacket in the court anyway. At least the marble you can keep with you to remember me by."

Lance's lips curl into a small smirk, so warm and fond. "As if I could forget you," he whispers.

"So you'll take it?"

Lance presses his lips to Keith's, and he can feel the smile as he says, "It's a deal."

* * *

For once, Keith thinks everything is going to work out. That he's done his time in tragedy, and the universe is finally repaying him for the hardships he's suffered.

It’s a young and naive thought, but he holds to it fast.

Enjoys his time with Lance.

Lets himself fall.

Because that's what he's doing. Falling for Lance. Feeling _so much_. Like a bubble of warmth in his chest that radiates down into his core. An undeniable fact. Something that, no matter how scary, cannot be ignored.

When he's sixteen, Keith falls in love with his best friend.

* * *

Life, however, is not fair.

Everything comes catching up to them with a bloody vengeance, and it does so without warning.

They're sitting in the woods one day, far from prying eyes both human and fey. Keith sits back against a tree while Lance sits between his thighs, leaning back against his chest. Keith's arms wrap around his middle, chin resting on his shoulder as he listens to Lance ramble and complain about the court.

Then all at once he stops.

He's on his feet in seconds, shoulder hitting Keith's jaw and causing his teeth to click together painfully. He winces, rubbing his jaw. "Lance, what the—"

"Shiro."

"What—"

"Lance!"

One moment they're alone, and in the next, Shiro is in their little clearing. He sprints out of the forest, a blur of movement, nearly materializing in front of Lance between blinks. He stops abruptly, and the wind that carries him continues on, rushing past Lance and hitting Keith at full force, knocking him back to the ground as he tried to stand.

He glares at him, but neither fey are looking at him. Shiro's face is set, eyes hard and glinting dangerously. There's a tension in his shoulders— a seriousness about how he holds himself— that immediately puts Keith on edge.

"Lance, you need to get back to court. _Now_." There's no room for argument. No question or plea. It's a demand. An _urgent_ one.

Lance straightens, going deathly still. Still as ice. His voice reflects it when he speaks. "What's going on?" He demands. Calm and steady, cold and hollow. Keith shivers. He's never heard Lance sound like that. Is that how he is in court?

"Sendak," Shiro says, and though the name means nothing to Keith, he can see the weight it carries with both of them. "He's coming for you. You need to get back to the court where it's safe."

"Sendak," Lance echoes, and all at once that authoritative cold air melts, running thick with hushed fear. "Why is he coming for _me?_." His hands curl into fists, and Keith can see them shaking. "Is this Lotor's doing?"

"No," he says with a sharp shake of his head. "It's the queen. Honerva." Shiro's brows furrow, and he lifts his head, looking around the forest with eyes like steel. "Lotor is the one who warned us. He wants to court Allura the traditional way, but the queen grows impatient. She decided that Allura will never pick her son as long as _you_ stand in the way."

"Allura and I aren't like that! I'm her favorite, but we're just friends. I'm only her suitor in name."

"I know that, but you act as a shield to ward off other suitors. The queen has decided you're interfering. So she sent Sendak."

Lance is definitely shaking now, and Keith surges to his feet, making it to Lance's side in just a few strides. He grabs one of Lance's hands, gently but firmly prying open his fist to slot their fingers together. Lance looks at him, and he offers a reassuring smile.

Lance doesn't smile back.

There's a distinct terror in his eyes.

It's more chilling than anything Keith has ever seen.

"Who's Sendak?" He demands.

"The winter knight," Lance whispers, looking away, brows furrowing and lips pursing into a small frown. "He's coming to kill me."

Keith blinks, feeling his heart stutter and twist. "He can't... he can't _do_ that, though." He looks between Lance and Shiro. Lance won't meet his gaze, but Shiro holds it steady. "It's against fey laws to harm someone outside their court."

Shiro's smile is small and wry. "You know a lot about our laws."

Keith shifts, lifting his chin. "My dad taught me."

Shiro nods. "Normally, yes, that would be true. But each court has a knight, and those knights are bound in servitude to the royals and are the only fey exempt from the laws."

"Shiro is the summer knight," Lance mumbles. "That's why he keeps an eye on me for Allura."

"So you can kill another fey without reason?"

Shiro grimaces. "Technically, yes, I can. If I'm ordered to. But the summer court doesn't use me like that. The winter court uses their knight as an assassin, and I'm used as a shield. It's my job to stop Sendak." His eyes move back to Lance, frown deepening. "Which means right now, I need to get you back to court."

Lance takes a deep breath, letting it out in a shaking shudder. He turns to Keith, taking both hands in his. "I have to go." He says, eyes hard despite the fear burning behind them. "You need to go home. _Now_. Before he finds you here with me—"

"Too late for that."

They all whip around to find another fey standing at the edge of the clearing. A tall man. Large and broad. Far more imposing than Shiro. He's covered in a thin layer of fur, purple and wild, thicker around his head like a mane. His ears are animalistic, sticking up from his head. One eye is a molten gold. The other glows red, a jagged scar running through it.

His arms are too thick, too long. Fingers ending in wicked claws. He hunches over, golden eye flickering between the three of them.

Lance steps in front of Keith, yanking him behind him. Shiro steps in front of them both.

The moment stretches. The air grows cold around them. Lance's hand burns in his. A tension stretches between them all, tight and thick. Growing more and more brittle by the second.

Until Keith can _feel_ the cracks.

He holds his breath.

Then the moment shatters, and chaos erupts.

It's all a blur, sped up and slowed down in intervals by his adrenaline and panic. Sunken and processed and saved to memory in patchwork pieces.

He remembers how Sendak charged and Shiro sprung forward to meet him. He remembers the clash of their weapons. Blades made of crackling energy and magic. He remembers the rushing whirlwind that surrounded them, whipping his hair around, stinging his cheeks and making it hard to see. He remembers how cold the air felt.

He remembers the heat of his own magic in a rolling boil beneath his skin.

He remembers how his birthmark felt like pins and needles, dagger begging to be summoned.

He remembers how Lance took him by the hand and dragged him away, the two of them sprinting through the forest. He remembers tripping over roots as he glanced over his shoulder, and how Lance had dragged him back to his feet. He remembers Lance's panicked voice, but not the words that were said.

He remembers seeing Sendak get past Shiro and charge after them.

He remembers how Sendak leapt, blade swinging, and how he had pulled Lance out of the way, the two of them rolling to the side as the fey's crackling purple blade— an extension from his arm— dug into the dirt.

He remembers Shiro sliding in to catch the next swing with a rush of wind.

He remembers the cry of pain— primal and jarring. He remembers the splash of crimson, and thinking absently how he never considered that fey might bleed like humans. He remembers the sharp bite of blood in the air.

He remembers seeing Shiro's arm on the ground as the man fell to his knees. He remembers the jagged scar across his face, oozing red down his cheeks as his eyes grew unfocused and dazed.

He remembers how Sendak advanced on Lance, and Lance shoved him away before running off into the forest.

He remembers the mounting horror and fear and _rage_ he felt as he watched Sendak chase after Lance.

He remembers charging after them.

He remembers finding them fighting. Remembers the ice being thrown. Remembers how quickly Lance was overpowered. How small he looked as he was knocked to the ground and Sendak loomed over him.

Remembers with startling clarity how _scared_ Lance looked. The fear in his eyes as he stared up at the shimmering purple claw-like blade and the malicious grin on the fey's face.

Remembers how Lance closed his eyes, a strange serene acceptance settling over his features.

Remembers it like a punch to his gut. Remembers how his heart stopped.

Remembers the _fire_ in his veins as he ran forward, letting his instincts take over. Throwing all caution to the wind. Digging deep into that magic bundled in his core and grips it tight, dragging it to the surface without mercy. Feels it _burn_ and _crawl_ beneath his skin like knives.

He remembers how his hand had ached as his dagger shot from his palm and into his grip.

He remembers how he had leapt into the air, dagger held high, and how it had lengthened— sharpened— morphed into a much bigger sword.

He remembers how he had plunged that sword into Sendak's back with all of his weight.

He remembers how the body had stumbled and crumpled beneath him. How the fey had screamed in dying rage.

He remembers how, as he stumbled back from the corpse, how his chest had _burned_. How his flesh was _searing_ and it had nothing to do with his own magic.

He remembers how raw his throat felt as he screamed. As he fell to his knees. As he lifted his shirt to find black marks _burned_ into his chest. Flesh tender and smoldering and aching.

He remembers how he looked up to find Lance watching him, mouth agape, eyes wide in awe, relief, and fear.

* * *

"How is this even possible, Allura?" There's clear distress in Lance's voice. It tugs at Keith's heart, but it's nothing compared to the ache of his singed flesh.

"I don't know, Lance. This is completely unprecedented."

It's the first time Keith has met Allura. She's pretty. Flawless. Inhuman and beautiful. She carries with her an air of confidence, power, and absolute authority. She speaks and acts like she expects to be obeyed, but there's a kindness in there. One that makes him _want_ to listen to her. Makes him think she actually cares, despite knowing she shouldn't.

He expected a fey princess to be cold and calculating, but she's not. He can see how warm she is beneath her carefully crafted mask.

He can see why Lance is friends with her.

"I didn't know ironbloods could even _be_ knights!"

"It's certainly never happened before." She doesn't sound nearly as upset as Lance, or quite nearly as panicked, but there's a contemplating uncertainty there.

"That might simply be because an ironblood has never been able to kill a knight before." Shiro says thoughtfully. "Or never had the opportunity. A court wouldn't appoint one as their knight, so that would have to be the only way. And ironbloods so rarely interact with court business, especially since Zarkon's reign began."

"He can't be the winter knight," Lance whispers, voice soft and cracking. "Allura, he _can't_."

"The problem is that he _is_ , Lance."

They're in Keith's house— well, his newest foster family's house. He probably shouldn't have invited so many fey into the home, but he can't bring himself to care. Lance trusts them anyway, and that's good enough for Keith.

He sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head hung low, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to ignore the pain radiating through his chest with each breath, echoing throughout his body, down to his bones.

He knows what lies under his shirt. He stared at it for a long time in the mirror, but he can't bring himself to look at it anymore. It looks like a tattoo but feels like a brand. Ink black and singed, cauterized and calloused. Rough and course.

Right at the center of his chest. Right on his sternum. A crescent moon with long points, encircling a seven pointed star. Spindly wings stretch out from it, settled beneath his collarbones.

The mark of the winter knight.

"But he _can't_ be," Lance says. They're standing in the hallway. Giving Keith the illusion of space. Even though he can hear them all perfectly through the open door. "They'll... they'll _kill him_. They won't let him be their knight, and even if they do... I'll lose him."

"I'm so sorry, Lance..."

"There has to be something we can do."

"I don't know if there is. The winter court will come for him."

"Or... maybe they won't."

"Shiro?" Lance asks, hopeful.

"What'd you mean?" Allura asks, skeptical.

"They don't know Keith is the knight. They don't know Sendak has fallen. If we hide Sendak's body, shield it from their scrying magic, and if we hide Keith the same way..."

"Then... the winter knight will essentially disappear," Allura says slowly. "They cannot give a new mantle without the death of the old knight. If we hide Keith... the winter court will lose their knight."

"They'll lose their assassin," Shiro adds.

"Can we do it?" Lance asks, excitement and hope melting away his fear. "Can we hide him?”

"I think I can..."

"Then what are we waiting for—"

"Lance."

" _Allura—_

" _Lance._ " It's sharp and stern, and Lance falls silent. When she continues, it's softer, but unyielding. "I can save him from the winter court. It will save his life. It will make ours easier, by removing the threat of the winter knight. But... you can't see him anymore."

"Allura," Lance's voice shakes. "No— _no_ , I'm not going to leave him—"

"I'll take away his memory. He won't remember you at all."

" _No_ —"

"He's an ironblood. He's the winter knight. He's _dangerous_. The winter court just tried to assassinate you. They will be watching you. If you continue to see him, they'll find him. For his own safety, your _own_ , and for the benefit of the court, you need to stay away."

"But... but, Allura... I—" Lance's voice cracks, coming in softer. "I think I—"

"I know how you feel about him." It's not unkind. She sounds pained. She sounds apologetic. "I can see how you feel about him. I can hear it. But this is the way it has to be."

"He's also saved your life twice," Shiro adds, and Allura gasps.

"He did _what?_ You didn't tell me he's already saved your life once before!"

"I... didn't want to bring it up," Lance mumbles.

"He's saved your life twice now," Shiro continues. "If he does it one more time..."

"I know," Lance breathes. "I know."

"Lance," Allura says, stern. "This is the way it's going to be. You cannot change my mind. For the benefit of the court, I'll hide him. I won't force you to stay away from him, but I suggest you do for his own safety, as well as your own."

"I... I understand." He sounds so defeated.

Keith's chest aches. He's finding it hard to breathe. Everything hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the burn behind them. Feeling the tears fall down his cheeks. His hands clench into fists, biting into his palms.

"But how will I know he's safe?" Lance whispers hoarsely. "I can't leave him alone unless I know he's safe."

"I'll watch over him," Shiro says suddenly, sounding surprisingly certain. "With your permission, of course, Allura. But without a winter knight, you'll have no need of me. It's my duty to watch and take care of the winter knight. I can still do that, just... not in the traditional sense."

"Are you sure?"

"While I appreciate everything you've given me, I miss the human realm. I grew up here. I think... I think it would be nice to return. And Keith... he's a good kid. He's special. Lance is right about that. I'll watch over him. I think we'll get along well."

"Then it's decided."

Lance enters the room first. Allura and Shiro give them a moment alone. They hold each other, faces buried and tears staining their cheeks. Keith doesn't remember the things they whisper. Isn't sure if they said anything at all. Doesn't know if there was anything they could say.

They show it in the way they touch. In the way they kiss. In the way they hold each other and press their foreheads together in those precious moments before Allura enters the room.

Lance holds his hand as Allura kneels in front of him, pressing her fingertips to his temples. He feels energy buzz like static there, sparking against his skin and vibrating through his bones.

He's afraid.

He's _scared_.

He doesn't want the winter court to find him— to be a slave to them— but he doesn't want to lose Lance either.

He squeezes Lance's hand. Hears Lance's choked sob.

Allura smiles, small and sad. "I regret this is how things have to be."

Her eyes go white, irises swirling and glowing. More and more— until they're blinding. Bright and consuming. Her fingers curl, nails biting into Keith's flesh. Sharp and jagged. Energy crackles along them.

Pain erupts at his forehead, piercing back into his skull. Sharp and overwhelming. Ripping a gasp from his lips. Causing his whole body to tense. His hands scramble to grab her wrists, nails digging in and tearing, but he can't pull the fey away. She's as immovable as stone as the pain builds— and builds— sharp and hot and tearing him apart—

And then everything goes white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this interlude oneshot of memories. Did you pick up on all the things from the box under Keith's bed? Next chapter back with the present and Keith's reaction to having his memories back.
> 
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> I'm most active on twitter. More info in my pinned tweet <33 To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
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	7. Never Fall in Love With Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance. 
> 
> Keith's in love with Lance, and it's not the first time. 
> 
> There's so much going on—so many dark clouds looming on the horizon—but for once... Keith lets himself simply live in the moment. Lets himself simply revel in friends, family, and _Lance_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A later update than expected bc we've been Going Through It this week. I'll post info about any delays or new fics on my twitter, so follow me there to keep up to date!
> 
> _This chapter contains brief sexual content/implications._

“ _Lance_.”

It’s the first word that leaves his mouth, brushing past his lips on the wings of a shuddering exhale.

It slips out before he’s fully pulled from the memory. When his vision is still blinding and bright, speckled with gray dots. His own voice muted to his ringing ears.

His body feels distant and weightless, floating in a void of nothing. His senses are disjointed. Scattered. Attempting to register the world around him but misfiring and getting caught up in a fractured reality.

“ _Lance_.”

His voice echoes in the void that’s been carved out of his chest. A void he’s lived with for so long. A void that is suddenly being filled. Memories slotting into place. Piece by piece. Filling a place that’s always been empty and cold and _nothing_.

But now it’s _something_.

Something so wonderful.

Something so beautiful.

Something that _aches_.

“ _Lance._ ”

It’s a mantra. It’s a prayer. It’s a name that brings so much _comfort_. A wholeness he had never known he was missing. A warmth he had been lacking. An important piece of himself that had been missing.

A treasured piece he can’t believe he had been able to forget.

The name slips from his lips as every memory drifts into that voice in his chest. As each one settles into place. Slowly clicking together. Weaving together a fabric that binds together the fractals of himself. Each one making him more _whole_. More _full_. Until his chest feels fit to burst.

“ _Lance_.”

Slowly— achingly slowly— the disjointed memories start to settle. Start to bind together with his known memories. And his frazzled mind starts to see them as one whole. Starts to process. Starts to _understand_.

All the implications.

All the truths.

His history with _Lance_.

Because they have a _history_.

A crazy, convoluted one of youth, loneliness, and innocent young— well, _love_. Because he had _loved_ Lance. He had fallen for that young fey boy when he knew that he shouldn’t.

And—

He had done it _again_.

Without knowledge of his old infatuation. Without knowledge of how much Lance had meant to him— what they had meant to _each other_. Keith had fallen for him again.

As the blinding light fades from his vision, his senses start to come back to him, registering now that the disjointed pieces of self have solidified into one whole.

He feels the tears cooling on his cheeks. He feels the way his body shudders with each raspy breath. He hears the hum of electricity and the soft, hitched breath of the man in front of him. He feels his hands shaking as they cling to Lance’s wrists. Feels Lance’s hands— so warm and long and firm despite the way they quiver— holding on so desperately to Keith’s face.

His nails bite into Keith’s skin.

Lance’s forehead bruises his own with how tightly they’re pressed together—

But he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care.

_He doesn’t care._

“ _Lance_.”

He surges forward, one hand leaving Lance’s wrist to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him forward—

Their lips meet, and Keith finally understand what it means to see fireworks. To feel something pop and burst in his chest, sizzling and oozing through his veins. A warmth of _joy_. Of contentment. Of comfort. Of _passion_.

Feeling so _whole_ and _full_ and— and _loved_. So full of love. So ready to burst with it. Every nerve ending in his body crackling and splintering and fit to _burst_ —

His mouth fits over Lance’s _perfectly_ , and he devours those honied lips like he’s the last breath of air as he drowns in a raging sea.

Lance’s hands release their grasp, only to slide into his hair and grip tighter, weaving into his locks and holding on like a vice. Keith’s scalp prickles with the pain, but it’s pleasant. It’s all so pleasant. And he wants— _needs_ more. Needs to drown in Lance until there’s no more space between them—

His hands find Lance’s hips, holding tight and pulling him into his lap. He comes easily, settling with his knees bracketing Keith’s hips, ass on his thighs. Adjusting without breaking their kiss. Without losing contact.

And Lance… Lance seems just as eager to devour him.

Perched on him. Wrapped around him. Clinging to him like Keith were his last anchor to sanity. Lance’s tongue licks into his mouth. Crashes their mouths together. Teeth nip at his lips.

Their kiss is bruising and firm, desperate and heated, and yet— and yet _gentle_. Soft. Desperation and longing stemmed not quite from passion— though they do toe the line— but from the feeling of _coming together_. Properly. For the first time in a long time.

Of feeling so lost and lonely and finally— _finally_ — being reunited as they should.

Kissing Lance like this— holding him like this— it’s all so _new_ , and yet it’s so achingly familiar. Old memories. New memories. The here and now. They coalesce and collide and form something—

Something _new_.

Something _exciting_.

Something _perfect_.

And as much as Keith is enjoying himself— both of them clinging to each other tightly— desperately pawing and clinging as their hips start up in a slow grind— he wants _more_ , and he doesn’t think he has the patience to wait.

Gripping Lance’s hips— keeping them pressed flush— Keith stands. He grins into the kiss as Lance gasps, scrambling to hold on. Together they stumble to the bedroom. Keith’s legs are shaking, and Lance does his best to distract him. Lips and teeth at his neck. Hot breath in his ear. Hips grinding as best as he can against Keith. Both of them hard and aching.

They stop several times, Keith giving into the distraction and pushing Lance up against the walls, pressing firmly into his mouth until Lance’s lips are bruised and he’s left dazed and breathless.

Time is weird. Hazy. Moving too quickly, a whirlwind around them, and yet at the same time, too slow, seconds oozing by like molasses.

But finally, they make it to Keith’s room, and he stumbles in before kicking the door shut behind him. Distantly, he’s grateful Kosmo didn’t follow them. Distantly, he’s also grateful and proud of his wolf’s high intelligence and understanding. Distantly, he makes a note to make sure to feed him after he’s done wrecking Lance within an inch of his life.

Finding his bed is all muscle memory, turning and sitting on the edge of it with Lance snuggly in his lap.

But then Lance is pulling away, breaking their kiss and leaving them both panting into the shared space between them, eyes lidded and dark. Lance’s twinkling like midnight waves.

Then slowly— so deliciously slowly— Lance leans back, the corner of his lips curling into a coy smile. He slides backwards, dragging himself along Keith’s thighs until he slips off, taking careful and languid steps backwards.

He turns, slipping this oversized jacket off his shoulders. Down his arms. Stepping over to Keith’s desk and folding it gently, carefully, _lovingly_ before setting it down. And Keith’s heart aches. Knowing that Lance has treasured that old jacket for so long.

But he doesn’t have time to lament. Not when Lance is suddenly in front of him again. Painted in the warm afternoon sun that peers through the spaces in his blinds. The golden glow warming his tan skin. Reflecting off his eyes like it might off the ocean.

The curl of those kiss reddened lips.

The lift of his cheeks that crinkle the corners of his eyes.

Keith is so transfixed by it— the beauty of his face— that it takes him a moment to realize that his glamour is fading.

Not all of it. Not the glamour that shimmers in his hair, on his high cheekbones, and at his ears.

But the glamour that holds his clothes in place.

It fades slowly. Sparkling in the early afternoon light. Drifting away until that golden glow ignites the flesh underneath. When he realizes what’s happening, he blinks, lips parting at the sight before him. And Lance just grins, coy smirk inching wider, smug and pleased.

He’s _beautiful_. Ethereal, really. Inhuman, but not in a way that screams _danger_. Not in a way that’s eerily fey and sets his instincts on edge. No, he’s inhuman in the same way statues are. Beautiful and perfect. Flawless in the eye of the sculptor. In the way paintings can capture the beauty beyond the limitations of the flesh.

Except Lance _is_ flesh.

He’s _real_.

And he’s standing before Keith with eyes only for _him_.

Keith lets his gaze roam. Down the long, slender neck to broad and bare shoulders. The jut of his collarbone is sharp and tempting. Practically begging to be marked by lips and teeth.

A necklace, woven into a net that holds an old, purple, glass marble. Worthless, really, except for the sentimental value. Matching the gemstone in the cuff Keith keeps on his ear.

Seeing it makes Keith’s breath hitch, warmth flooding through him, pleasant and tingling.

A well defined chest and trim waist that makes Keith’s hands itch to hold. Perky, dusty nipples pleading for his tongue. The sharp points of his hipbones and the deep lines that guide Keith’s gaze to a thicket of dark hair.

Long. Swollen. Hard and leaking. The tip beading precum that glistens in the golden sun.

Keith’s mouth waters.

His lips feel dry.

He licks them, eyes sliding back up to Lance’s and catching that smug smile.

A smile that _almost_ hides the nervousness that shimmers in the depths of those swirling irises. It’s a shyness that curves his posture _just slightly_. An uncertainty that has him shifting his weight, muscles twitching and jumping beneath smooth, dark skin.

He hides it well, but Keith knows him better than that. Knows him better than _anyone_.

“Come here,” he demands, holding out his hands, fingers grabbing at open air. He can’t stand to see Lance so hesitant. He longs to show him just how beautiful he is. Long to _worship_ him in the way he deserves. Will show him _exactly_ what he does to Keith.

But instead of moving toward him, Lance just tilts his head, a playfulness shimmering across his features. “Not until you’re as bare as I am.”

It’s a tease.

It’s a plea.

It’s a demand.

Keith reaches back instantly, grabbing the back of his shirt and dragging it over his head, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. He stands just long enough to shuck his sweatpants and boxers, refusing to let himself feel ashamed as he falls back onto the bed, scooting backwards until his back is leaned against the headboard. Legs splayed open. Lap waiting as he holds out his arms once more.

And Lance takes a moment. Lets his eyes roam shamelessly and unabashed. Keith feels heat prickle beneath his skin, settling at his neck and hot at his ears. It’s not embarrassment. Not really. Lance has seen him like this, long ago and fairly recently. But… this _feels_ different. This feels new.

But then Lance is stepping up to the bed, falling forward to crawl across it until he’s settled once more in Keith’s lap. Bare ass shifting as he makes himself comfortable atop Keith’s bare thighs.

The air around them is cold in Keith’s lungs, but Lance’s skin is hot to the touch.

He leans up for a kiss, and Lance meets him halfway. Slow and languid. Memorizing each other. Patient even as the passion simmers beneath the surface, ready to boil over.

But then Lance is leaning away, hand on Keith’s shoulder to keep him in place as he attempts to follow after him.

He pouts, can feel it on his lips as his brows furrow, making a rumbling sound in protest.

But Lance isn’t looking at him.

His eyes are on Keith’s chest.

His hand slides down Keith’s shoulder, over his collarbone to trace delicate fingertips over his sternum. His eyes are lidded. Lips pursed. Expression gone heart wrenchingly somber.

Keith looks down— and his stomach twists, breath leaving his lungs in a rush.

It’s there. The mark from his memories. The one he’s seen out of the corner of his eye when he wakes from nightmares.

It looks almost like Shiro’s, but not quite. Where Shiro’s seven pointed star is encased in a sun, Keith’s is surrounded by a long crescent moon. It’s set right against his sternum, settled in the center of his chest. The spiked wings flare out beneath his collarbones.

It looks like a tattoo, but he knows it’s a brand.

The mark of the Winter Knight.

Lance’s fingers trace it, careful and gentle, and while it doesn’t hurt, Keith can feel the phantom burn. Echoes of the memory he now has, reminding him how it had seared into his flesh after he had— he had _killed_ the last Knight.

It makes him dizzy. Makes his breath hitch as things start to swirl, implications and knowledge of his new reality sinking in.

But Lance’s touch keeps him grounded. Keeps him clinging to _this moment_. The here and now.

Lance’s touch is reverent, not nearly as frightened of the brand of the Winter Knight as Keith knows he should be, but his expression is far too somber. Far too distraught. Voice pinched and tight as he whispers, “This is my fault.”

“Lance…” He reaches out, lifting a hand from Lance’s thigh to cup his cheek, feeling his heart warm and the knot in his stomach relax as Lance leans into his touch, nuzzling against his palm.

His eyes, however, stay on Keith’s chest. His brows remain furrowed. “I never got to apologize.”

Keith chuckles, soft and low. “Fey don’t apologize.” It’s one of their rules. Apologies is admitting one was wrong, that they’ve harmed another.

Lance’s gaze flickers up to his, smile small but definitely there. “I suppose the human realm is starting to influence me.” But his smile doesn’t hold for long. It falls as his eyes drop back down. “This never would have happened if I had been more careful. And because of that, you stepped in, and now you’re tangled in court politics.”

“You _know_ it’s not your fault. You’ve said it yourself: the winter queen resents your place with Allura. She would have sent the knight after you either way.” He rubs his thumb along Lance’s cheekbone, right over where his glamour shimmers. “I’m just glad I was with you to stop it.”

Lance, however, doesn’t take this as solace. He frowns, lifting narrowed eyes to Keith’s. “But now you’re part of the _Winter Court_. You’re an _ironblood_ , Keith. They’ll tear you apart.”

Keith lifts his other hand, joining the first in cupping Lance’s face. He brings him close, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. Until he can feel Lance’s breath on his lips. And despite the close angle, he refuses to break eye contact. “I would do it all over again,” he says, sharp and firm. He needs Lance to hear him. To _understand_. “I regret _nothing_ , Lance.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t protest. He just smiles, small and wavering. Eyes glistening. Voice hoarse as he whispers, “I owe you my life.”

At that, Keith grins. The feeling of being whole— of having all his memories— rushing through him with warmth and bubbling giddiness. “Again.”

A soft, breathy laugh against his lips. “Again.”

When he kisses Lance, it’s slow and sweet. Honey on his lips. Seeping into his veins. But Lance is hot to the touch, and it draws out Keith’s own heat. Sparking and building a fire beneath his skin. And burn and an itch that refuse to be sated. That _demand_ he hold tighter, kiss harder, _take, take, take_ —

Lance pulls back, letting out a shuddering breath. “They’re after you now. We don’t know why, but if they find you, they’ll see the mark, and—“

Keith kisses him. Hard and fast. Swallowing Lance’s soft gasp and resonating moan. Shoving his tongue past those honied lips to taste the sound of it. To draw out more. When he stops, it’s only to whisper against his mouth, “Not now. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.” One hand slides into Lance’s hair, cradling the back of his head. The other slides down his side to grip his waist, pulling and urging him to roll those sinful hips. “Not now.”

They come together. Two broken and jagged pieces. Each with chips and hollows that house shadows and fears. Yet they slot together easily. Filling those gaps. Brightening the shadows. Falling together in perfect sync.

Emotionally ready.

Physically desperate.

Their kiss is a needy push and pull, matching the pace of Lance’s hips as Keith’s hands lead him into a slow, filthy grind. Not that Lance needs much direction. He picks it up easily and willingly, rutting against Keith in long drags, making his breath hitch and pulse run hot.

He works himself up, head falling back and away from Keith to catch his breath. Panting heavily. Eyes squeezed shut. Soft moans escaping those pretty, swollen lips.

Keith leans forward, mouth latching onto his throat and sucking hard. Nibbling along sensitive flesh before letting his teeth really sink in. Kissing the abused spots as color starts to rise. Beautiful red and purple bruises. Pretty little marks. Keith marvels at them. Transfixed and fascinated. Lance has always been so _fey_. So inhuman. A living, breathing statue. And yet Keith can do _this_. Can leave him hard, aching, and panting. Can mark up his flesh and bring new color to the beauty of Lance’s canvas. Can leave _his_ mark.

At times, Lance has seemed so untouchable. But here in this moment, Keith can see just how _touchable_ he is. That he has been given the privilege and pleasure of taking Lance’s body. Of molding his flesh to Keith’s own. Of leaving his marks.

He’s so real. So solid. So _perfect_ as he writhes atop Keith’s lap.

And when Keith takes them both in hand— fingers wrapped tightly around both their cocks— holding them together as he starts up a painfully slow rhythm that has pleasure sparking through his veins in the best of ways, Lance absolutely _loses it_. Body coiled tight. Nails digging into Keith’s shoulders. Keith can _feel_ the vibrations of his moans as he sucks another dark mark into that pretty little neck of his.

Unfortunately, as much as he loves torturing Lance, it’s torturous enough for himself to run his patience thin.

And when his patience finally snaps, he’s not gentle about it.

He shifts their weight suddenly, getting both hands under Lance’s thighs to lift him off his lap and dump him to the side, leaving him bouncing on the mattress with a squawk of protest as he rolls away. His feet have barely hit the floor before he’s on the move, closing the distance to the dresser in only a few long strides.

Finding where he’s buried his bottle of lube takes time, hands shaking and knees threatening to buckle.

“ _Hah,_ ” he breathes out, lips curling in victory as he pulls it from beneath a pile of socks. “Found it—“

He turns and freezes, breath rushing out of his lungs.

Lance lays on his rumpled sheets, long and lithe body splayed out in the afternoon sun. The slats of light from the blinds ripple across tight muscles that flex beneath smooth skin. He’s propped up against the pillows, arms bent above his head, hands relaxed and fingers curling. Thighs fallen open. Just a little. Just enough to tease. Back arched. Not painfully or obviously. Just enough to stretch himself out like a cat in the sun. Cock hard and curved, a bead of precum dripping to his stomach.

Head turned and watching Keith through half lidded eyes.

A predator.

He had always been warned of fey like this. Of fey like _Lance_. High fey. Powerful and dangerous. Beauty beyond comprehension. Delicate. Strong. Tempting. _Oh so tempting_.

Deliciously sinful.

Achingly sweet.

Dangerously addicting.

Lance should be, by all rights, exactly what Keith should fear. And yet, seeing him laid out on Keith’s bed, body shamelessly on display and lips curling in a coy grin, relaxed and confident like he belongs there, Keith can’t bring himself to have any regrets.

Not when that cold, dark hollow in his chest finally feels warm and full.

He takes his time preparing Lance. Stretching him open with the utmost care. Moving gently. Slowly. Making Lance _ache_ with it. Making him _writhe and bed_. And Keith watches it all. Settled between his legs. Slipping in a third finger and watching the beautiful way Lance’s back arches. The way his chest rises and falls with each breath. Watches the way his fists curl into the sheets, eyes squeezed shut as he gasps.

Such a powerful creature.

Such a _dangerous_ creature.

Leaving himself vulnerable. Trusting Keith to take care of him. Letting himself be at Keith’s mercy. Despite the fact that Keith is an ironblood. That he’s the Winter Knight.

It makes Keith’s heart swell, tight and full against his ribs, overflowing with every pulse, oozing like fire through his veins.

Lance loses patience first, gently kicking Keith away and scrambling to sit up. He dives toward Keith with a determined glint in his eye, and while Keith knows he could fight it, he sees no reason to. He lets Lance manhandle him. Lets himself be turned around and laid back on the bed, head and shoulders propped up in the pillows.

Then Lance is straddling his lap once more, risen up on his knees to hover above. He’s tall and proud. Confident and beautiful. Practically regal— despite the dark flush to his skin and the heavy pant of of his breath— as he reaches behind him, takes hold of Keith’s cock, and sits upon his throne.

His breath is shaky as he settles. Keith watches him through lidded eyes, hands rubbing restlessly along his thighs, nails curved into the skin, desperate to grab hold but unable to stop moving.

Lance is tight, swallowing him with a heat that borders on unbearable.

But Keith can feel his magic unfurling. Trembling and alive. Seeping out into his veins, excitement prickling beneath his skin, crackling like flames.

And as Lance begins to move— rising up on his knees before sinking down, quick and sure— those flames are stoked to a raging wildfire. One that burns through him. Through Lance. Leaping and sparking where they touch. Licking along their skin and swirling low in his gut.

The pace Lance sets is quick but steady. Rising all the way up before sinking all the way down. Long and heavy strokes. Riding him hard. And it’s all Keith can do to hold on. Hands on his waist, his hips, his thighs. Whispering soft encouragements and hissing ragged curses.

Lance leans forward, holding himself up with two hands on Keith’s chest. Fingers splayed wide and curled. Nails biting into flesh.

Gripping the mark on his chest.

Palms _burning_ on the brand.

As if to reclaim the Winter Knight as his own, though Keith already knows he is.

And when Lance starts to tire, movements becoming sluggish and face pinched as his legs begin to ache, Keith takes over. He grabs Lance’s hips, fingers curling into his ass. He plants his heels and _thrusts_. Setting a new pace, quick and brutal, driving them both rapidly towards the edge, toppling them both over.

Lance cums with a choked cry, falling forward over Keith’s chest and desperately seeking his mouth. Keith kisses him, all teeth and no finesse, as he topples over after him. Spilling inside him, hips thrusting erratically through it as Lance’s body goes tight and wound.

The moment holds— holds— _holds_ — breathless and weightless—

Before they’re both crashing back down. Falling together. Heavy and exhausted. Sweat soaked skin sticking together. Chests pressing and pulling.

Keith wraps his arms around Lance, holding him tight, refusing to let this moment end. And Lance simply rests, breath evening out against his collarbones, fingers idly twining with Keith’s hair.

The afternoon sun is still bright where it shines through his blinds, and he has no intention of either of them leaving this room until they’re sore, sated, and that sun has long since set.

* * *

“Sorry about that, Kosmo,” Keith mutters, letting his dog in from the outside and setting a bowl of food on the ground. He kneels down, running his hands through thick fur, smiling as Kosmo wags his tail. “Got a little caught up in Lance.”

Kosmo doesn’t look at him, wholly concentrated on eating, but Keith gets the feeling that he understands. When he emerged from the room, exhausted, sore, and buzzing with warm contentment, Kosmo had been sleeping on the couch. He had regarded Keith with excitement, bounding over to the back door, easing the guilt Keith had twisting in his chest.

Now that he and Lance are— probably— done for the evening, he figures Kosmo can join them. Lance has expressed that he doesn’t want to leave the bed all night, and Keith can get behind that.

So he’ll just bring his dog and his laptop, and they’ll curl up together watching movies until they fall asleep.

Like they did when they were younger.

The memory makes Keith smile, warmth bubbling in his chest, oozing from that space that had once been cold and hollow.

And then he’s ripped from his thoughts as the front door bursts open with enough force to crack against the wall. “ _Keith!_ ”

He’s on his feet in seconds, adrenaline surging through his system and putting him on edge. Instincts take over. In the blink of an eye, he’s pivoted while he stands. Throwing out an arm as his Marmora mark _burns_ , blade materializing quickly and blood pushing it through his palm and into his hand.

He’s crouched low, arms up and at the ready, the magic in his core unfurling and crackling like fire through his veins. Kosmo curls around him, food forgotten, hackles raised and lips curled back in a snarl—

And then they both pause, faced with nothing more than a frazzled Shiro standing in the doorway.

He locks eyes with Keith, his own wide and wild. Something about the magic look puts Keith on edge, and even as Shiro sighs, entire body sagging with relief, Keith is slow to relax.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, stepping into the house and shutting the door behind him. “Thank the sun, you’re alright.”

“What’s going on?” He asks, dagger slowly easing back into his skin, prickling beneath the flesh of his arm. He shakes his hand to ease the sensation, but his eyes remain narrowed on Shiro, heart still racing.

“What’s—“ Shiro scoffs, shaking his head as he drops his bags. He bends down to untie his shoes. “I’d like to ask you the same thing. You didn’t show up for work, and then I heard of a strange attack at the subway. Humans are saying some bombs went off, but it sounded fey to me. I tried calling you, but you weren’t answering. Neither was Lance—“

He freezes as he looks up, eyes going wide as they settle on Keith’s bare chest, no longer half hidden by his defensive stance.

The brand of the Winter Knight on full display.

He _hears_ the air rush from Shiro’s lungs, voice strangled and hoarse as he whispers, “You’re— you—“ He swallows hard, visibly trying to piece together the shattered remains of his composure. “What happened?”

Keith’s hand moves to his chest, fingers feeling along the edges of the mark. The texture is different. Just a little. Just enough that he can feel it had been burned into his flesh with magic.

He swallows hard. “Right… Uh—“

“Keith!” They both turn as Lance stumbles down the hall, one hand against the wall as he pauses in the doorway to the living room.

Despite the fact that he could easily use his magic to not only dry himself, but also glamour some clothing, Lance insists on being wrapped in a large, fluffy towel after a shower. Something about it feeling nice against his skin.

“I heard a loud noise— oh, hey, Shiro.” He relaxes, grinning as he straightens, one hand holding the towel securely around his waist.

Shiro just stares. Eyes wide and owlishly blinking as his gaze drifts from Lance, to Keith, and back again. The silence is palpable. Tension rising with each passing second. Keith clears his throat, feeling the heat of embarrassment prickle at the back of his neck, burning at his ears as he shifts his weight.

“I… don’t understand what’s happening,” Shiro says slowly, and Keith can practically hear the gears turning behind those words.

“It’s… complicated,” Keith tries, but Lance immediately scoffs.

“It’s really not.” His expression hardens. Something serious and solemn overtaking his easy posture as he faces Shiro. “The winter queen’s servants attacked us on the subway. They were after _Keith_ , and we don’t know why. When we got back, I—“ His formal mask starts to crack, biting his lip as he glances to Keith. “He asked me about his memory for the third time…” Lance says softly, a hesitant smile touching his lips. “I removed Allura’s spell.”

“So… he remembers?”

“He does.”

“He knows what this means?”

“He does.”

“And… you two…”

“I’m not sure anything has changed,” Lance says, thoughtful, wistful. His smile widens, head tilting as he regards Keith fondly. “But it _feels_ different.”

Keith meets his gaze, unable to hide his grin, unable to stop the bubbling warmth and giddiness that grips his heart and spills out into his veins—

Shiro clears his throat, awkward and stiff. “Right, well… we have a lot to talk about.”

“Tomorrow?” Keith asks. A small plea. An exhausted hope.

Shiro sighs, a small, tired smile curving his lips. He looks more at ease now that he’s home, now that he knows they’re both safe. Perhaps even now that he knows that Keith _knows_. “Tomorrow,” he agrees. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

* * *

Tomorrow, unfortunately, comes too soon.

Keith wakes in his bed alone, exhausted, and disoriented. No Kosmo. No Lance. Leaving him to wonder, in his sleep addled state, if he’d imagined the whole thing.

But Lance’s jacket is still folded on his desk, his body is _definitely_ still sore, and when he looks down, the mark on his chest is a stark assurance that it had all been real.

That doesn’t, however, explain why he’s alone.

Slipping out of bed, he pulls on boxers and a pair of sweatpants before pausing at the door. Normally, he would just go without a shirt, unable to be bothered this early. But… his fingers idly trace the star on his sternum, stomach twisting in knots.

He ends up grabbing a shirt before padding out into the hallway.

And— pauses as he enters the living room, struck by the strangest, most domestic scene he’s ever seen.

Shiro sits in his armchair, one leg crossed over the other, phone in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Wearing his pajamas.

Lance is in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. One hand in an oven mitt to handle the metal of the pan, and a spatula in the other. Rather than glamouring an outfit of his own, he’s wearing _Keith’s_ pajamas.

Kosmo sits patiently next to him. Tail wagging idly. Eyes locked on food.

Keith’s chest feels full. Pressure against his ribs nearly overwhelming. Warmth blooming in his heart and rippling through his veins with every beat of his pulse.

“Morning,” Shiro grunts, taking a sip of his coffee.

Keith just stares… blinks… and then mutters a barely coherent, “Morning,” as he shuffles into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Lance greets, humming contently as Keith steps up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and hooking his chin over a shoulder.

“You can cook?”

Lance shrugs, leaning back against Keith’s chest. “Hunk has been showing me some things.” He reaches over, poking an empty mug with his spatula. “Shiro made coffee, too. I got a mug out for you.”

“Later…” Keith mumbles, arms tightening as he buries his face in the curve of Lance’s shoulder and nuzzles against his neck. The bruises are still there. The markings Keith had left with his lips and teeth. It’s thrilling to see them. Even more so that Lance hadn’t bothered to glamour them away.

The food ends up being mediocre, but Keith has been exposed to Shiro’s cooking and Lance looks so damn proud of himself. So Keith would never complain.

Afterwards, he settles on the couch, and Lance curls up beside him. Legs slung over his lap, head on his shoulder. Curled up at his side with Keith’s arm around his shoulders. He looks so content, smile tired but vibrant. Kosmo lays at his other side, head on Lance’s lap.

He’s not sure where to begin, but thankfully— as always— Shiro has him covered.

“So…” He says as he runs his fingers through his mop of white hair. He leans back in his chair with a sigh, meeting Keith’s gaze with tired eyes. “You know.”

Keith nods. “I know.”

“You remember… everything?”

“Yeah.”

“So you know how you got…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely to his own chest.

Keith purses his lips and nods again. “I do.”

“And… you know what it means?”

“I… do.” And he does. Sort of. He’s not sure it’s ever been explicitly stated, but he’s gathered enough of the pieces to form a full picture.

To save Lance’s life, Keith killed the last Winter Knight, and thus took on the mantle himself. Which could only happen because his mother’s blood is apparently of the winter court. As the Winter Knight, he would be the assassin of the court. However, his ironblood allows him to not abide by the laws that govern them. But the mantle is for life.

Thus, the only way for them to get their knight back would be by Keith’s death.

Which wouldn’t be _too much_ of an issue— given he’s lived in hiding for nearly ten years— if not for the fact that the winter court has apparently taken notice of him.

Shiro nods. He moves on, neither of them willing to go over these finer details aloud. Not when the implications of it hang so obviously in the tension in the room. Shiro clears his throat. “So… yesterday… Lance?”

Lance stiffens, lifting his head from Keith’s shoulder and sitting up a little straighter. “I’ve been followed recently. I’ve noticed the queen’s servants watching me, and I had stayed away for a while to hopefully throw them off.” He glances sheepishly at Keith. “I thought I had lost them… I wouldn’t have come back if I knew they were there. I wouldn’t have put you in danger like that—“

Keith’s arm tightens around his shoulders, offering a small smile. “I know. I don’t blame you.”

Lance relaxes, but Shiro’s expression pinches, brows furrowing as he stares at his coffee in thought. “They’ve been following you, but they were after Keith?”

Lance nods. “I’m sure of it. When they attacked us, they were aiming at Keith.”

“Do you know what they want from him?”

“No…” He sighs, leaning into Keith’s side. His fingers idly scratch at Kosmo’s fur, eyes downcast. “I think… they just recognize that he’s important to me. I think they want to use him against me. I don’t think they realize who he is.”

“That’s not good, but it’s better than the alternative.” Shiro sighs once more, and as he eyes the two of them, he smiles for the first time that morning. “I’m glad the two of you are alright. So…” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Eyeing them both over the steeple of his fingers. “What’re we going to do now?”

* * *

They decide to keep a low profile for the next week. Keith calls his clients to reschedule, claiming to have some sort of flu. Shiro still goes, reasoning that they don’t know if the druids are aware of where Keith works or if he’s affiliated with Shiro. And if they _do_ , it seems best for Shiro to keep functioning as normal, as if Keith’s whereabouts aren’t his concern.

Not that it’s easy for him. Keith can see how much he hates leaving every morning. How worried he is behind that crippling, fractured mask of confidence and casual ease. He calls Keith throughout the day, and hugs him tight every day when he gets home.

Keith acts like he hates it, disgruntled by the smothering.

But he hugs back just as tight, and he answers every phone call.

Shiro also forces Pidge to take the week off from work, just in case. He doesn’t want her anywhere near the potential crossfire. And despite her loud protests, Keith thinks she appreciates it. Instead, Shiro calls in Matt to work the front desk. They take very few appointments. They bide their time with tense smiles and stiff postures.

Meanwhile, Keith is more or less under house arrest.

He’s not allowed to leave, the thresholds being his last line of defense. The blinds and curtains are drawn only enough to let in minimal light. Only their backyard is considered safe, and only after Kosmo has run out and scouted the area for any sign of fey.

He feels _trapped_. Restless and caged. Pacing in a dim house that’s supposed to be his sanctuary but ends up feeling like his prison.

But thankfully, Lance is with him. Under house arrest, just as he is. Laying low, together.

And they keep each other company. They keep each other distracted. They keep each other… occupied.

They cuddle on the couch watching things, and then end up making out, hips grinding and breaths heavy.

They cook together, and then end up with one sitting on the counter with the other between their legs.

They shower together, and Lance teaches Keith how to relax in a bath, something he’s never had the patience for until he was leaning against Lance’s bare chest with strong arms wrapped around his waist.

They spend their afternoons with Kosmo. Their evenings with Shiro. And their nights together. Wrapped up in each other, tangled in the sheets, talking long into the night as the moonlight peers through the blinds.

They talk openly for the first time since finding each other again. About court. About life. About what they’ve been through.

They laugh without strain, freely and honestly, and Keith feels giddy with it. Lighter than air. Warm and content.

Being with Lance had been natural and easy, fulfilling and addictive. But now… it’s just so much _more_. For the first time, there are no secrets. Nothing holding them back. No reason to hold back because they’re in this together now. For better or for worse.

“I couldn’t stay away…” Lance admits one night, curled up at Keith’s side. A fingertip idly traces the seven pointed star. He’s taken to doing that a lot lately. Like somehow he might be able to wash the stain from it and make it beautiful.

Though, despite being a mark of death, Keith finds it beautiful in its own way. It’s a mark he got saving Lance’s life, and he’d do it a hundred times over. He wears it with a sense of pride, even if Lance and Shiro don’t understand it.

Keith hums, fingers of one hand running through Lance’s hair, his other hand buried in Kosmo’s fur.

“I just… missed you. I worried about you. Wondered about you. Hunk had let it slip that you and Shiro were living near him, and I just… wound up there one day.”

Keith exhales a sharp, short laugh. “Just wound up in the human realm?”

Lance turns, nuzzling into Keith’s shoulder. He can feel his smile. “Yup. Just went for a walk one day and ended up in the human realm. Visited Hunk. Caught sight of you… and then couldn’t stop.” He sighs, ending it in a huff. Yet despite the dramatics of it, he sounds content. His hand slips down Keith’s chest, fingertips moving in a lazy, teasing trail, ever downwards. “Everyone warned me that ironbloods were dangerous, but no one warned me that they were tempting and addicting.”

Keith chuckles. “Funny. Everyone warned me that fey could be tempting and addicting.”

Lance hums, shifting until he’s on top of Keith. Chin resting against his chest. Body settled between his legs. Cheshire grin lighting up his eyes. “And yet you fell for me anyway.”

“I did.”

“ _Twice_.”

“Twice.”

* * *

At the end of the week, Shiro leaves to visit the Summer Court for the first time since this arrangement began.

And Keith spends the following days high strung and worried. Not worried that they’ll hurt him, but that they won’t let him come back. That they’ll take Shiro away from him. That he’ll be alone—

But Lance assures him that Allura won’t do that. Shiro is just reporting to her— covertly and secretly— about the situation and Lance’s whereabouts.

It makes him feel better, but he doesn’t fully relax until a couple days later. He’s lounging against the kitchen counter, texting Pidge while he gives Lance some privacy to speak with Hunk over the phone in his— their?— room. Then suddenly Kosmo is sitting up ramrod straight, ears perked forward, eyes locked on the front door.

The second the key touches the lock, Kosmo is shooting towards it, and Keith is honestly not far behind.

“Whoa, there, Kosmo,” he laughs, nearly getting knocked off his feet. “Missed you, too, buddy.”

“You’re back,” Keith says, plain and simple.

To which Shiro just smiles, soft and fond. “I’m back.”

He rushes forward into Shiro’s offered embrace, sinking into him as he had so many times growing up. Ever patient. Ever strong. Ever secure and grounding. He lets out a heavy breath and feels the tension ooze out of him. And, he likes to think, he feels Shiro do the same.

“So how did it go?” He asks five minutes later, when they’re both settling on the couch with a beer.

“As well as it could have, I suppose,” Shiro says, taking a long drink. “I managed to meet with Allura in private and explained the situation. She doesn’t know what the Winter Queen is planning, but she’ll look into it. For now, she wants us to lay low.”

Keith nods, humming his acknowledgement as he fiddles with the label on his bottle. “Is she going to call Lance back…?” He asks softly.

Shiro pauses a moment before saying, “At some point, yes. But she agreed to give you both some time together before she does.”

Keith lets out a long sigh, sinking back into the couch cushions. Kosmo comes to sit by his feet, head resting on Keith’s lap as he idly scratches behind his ears.

“Keith…” He rolls his head where it’s resting on the back of the couch, eyeing Shiro with a raised brow. But the man isn’t looking at him. “I’m sorry.”

“Fey aren’t supposed to apologize, Shiro,” he says, teasing falling flat as Shiro’s brows furrow.

“I know,” he chuckles dryly. “A habit picked up from this realm. But… I _am_ sorry that this happened to you. I _am_ admitting my guilt in this. If I hadn’t failed—“

“Shiro—“

“Then you wouldn’t have needed to step in. It’s my fault you were branded, and my fault that we had to take away your memories.” He pauses before continuing, soft and heavy. “It’s my fault you had to forget Lance.”

It makes his heart ache. Hearing a fey admit guilt so blatantly. It’s something they _never_ do. It’s so incredibly _human_. And Shiro sounds pained. Not by the admittance of his guilt, but by simply _feeling_ that guilt. He’s been holding onto it for so long. An emotion like that must tear him up inside. Fighting fiercely against his fey nature.

But no matter how fey Shiro is, he was raised human. He’s lived as a human. And Keith hates seeing him so vulnerable when he expresses those seeds of humanity.

He scoots over, letting his head fall against Shiro’s shoulder, leaning up against his side. “I forgive you.”

A long pause.

Several silent breaths.

“Just like that?”

He nods. “Just like that.”

With a relieved sigh, Shiro sinks into the cushions next to him, both of them kicking their feet up on the coffee table. “There’s something else I want you to know.”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t want you to think I never cared. I was fond of you before it all happened. I could see the strength in you, and I liked seeing the joy you brought out in Lance. You… reminded me of myself.” He reaches over with his free hand, setting it on Keith’s bicep, squeezing it gently. “Watching over you was my assignment, but I took it gladly. _Caring_ for you wasn’t part of my job, but I did that gladly, too. Nothing about this changes the years we spent together. I still took you in. I still raised you. We’re still a family. I need you to know that.”

Keith smiles, small and fond, laying his hand over Shiro’s and squeezing back. “I know, Shiro.”

He knows because he _feels_ it. He _knows_ that what they have here, this whole life they’ve built, is _real_. Shiro guiding him. Training him. Preparing him. Helping him grow into the man he is today. All of that was _real_. It wasn’t an assignment from the court. It was all Shiro.

And if he ever had any doubts, well… Shiro can’t lie.

“Everyone is sorry for what happened, but… I saved Lance’s life. I got a brother. I got a stable life. I got Pidge as a best friend. And I got to fall in love with Lance all over again.” He takes a long pull from his beer, making a show of sighing afterwards. “I don’t regret any of it.”

Shiro chuckles, soft and low. “I hope things continue to turn in your favor.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.”

* * *

“Wow,” Pidge breathes, sunk low in her chair, beer bottle hovering near her lips, forgotten. “I’ve never seen Shiro get so flustered before. I’m embarrassed _for_ him.”

Beside her, Matt sniffles, loudly and obnoxiously, wiping away a false tear before pulling out his phone. “This is the greatest day of my life.”

“Lance, you’ve known Shiro the longest,” Hunk says, leaning over the arm of his chair in an attempt to at least appear like he’s whispering. “Have you ever seen him like this?”

Lance shakes his head, lips spread in a grin that’s absolutely _delighted_. “Nope. Never.”

They’re all sitting around the fire pit in Shiro and Keith’s back yard. Built out of stone and brick. All of them relaxing in lawn chairs made out of wicker instead of metal.

After several weeks of isolation, and no sign of the Winter Queen’s druids watching them, they finally got fed up with being alone and on edge. Instead of going out, they invited all their closest friends over.

As it turns out, they weren’t the only ones who had been high strung with worry. Everyone could use an evening together. Enjoying each other’s company. Pretending the courts don’t exist. Temporarily dismissing the giant elephant in the room.

And somehow, against all odds, Keith and Lance managed to convince Shiro to invite Adam.

Keith thinks it was really Lance who did it. His speech about not letting the courts dictate their lives and finding their own happiness in quiet moments like these was extremely heartfelt. Keith could see the moment Shiro cracked, his desire outweighing his caution.

So now here they are. All together. In a bubble of peace. In a bubble of warmth and contentment. Pidge and Matt leaning close, whispering as they film. Hunk and Shay across the fire from them, chairs close to one another (they are the third and fourth fey that Keith has ever willingly invited over the threshold of his home, and he can’t bring himself to regret it). And Lance sits at his side. Their own chairs close. Their ankles hooked together. Lance’s fingers intertwined with his own. The air is cold, but Keith can feel the heat emanating from his skin.

Shiro is across the patio, where Adam is manning a grill and cooking them all the dinner that Hunk had prepared. Matt had brought the grill, shuffled into the backyard with Keith’s help, but Adam had offered to do the actual grilling. Somehow, he fully believes Shiro and Hunk’s excuse of being highly allergic to metal.

Though, Keith supposes, it’s fairly believable when you know nothing of fey but have witnessed the blisters that form when Shiro touches iron.

“I’ve known him for _years_ at court,” Lance says, fingers idly playing with Keith’s. It’s a lazy touch. A subconscious one. It makes Keith smile. “I’ve seen him approached by _many_ beautiful fey trying to vie for his attention, some more bluntly than others. I’ve seen him hold the court’s complete attention. I’ve seen the court criticize and pick at him. But I’ve _never_ seen him be anything but confident, sure, and… well, _Shiro_.”

“Is he like this at home?” Shay asks, leaning over Hunk to look at Keith questioningly.

He shakes his head, unable to wipe the smug and amused smirk from his lips. He is _never_ going to let Shiro live this down. _Never_. “I’ve seen him get shy and embarrassed when I bring up Adam, but never like this.”

Shiro stands by the grill (a notable safe distance away from the metal), and listens avidly as Adam talks. He speaks casually, waving the grill tongs around as he does, wearing a _Kiss the Cook_ apron that Matt had _insisted_ on. Shiro watches him with complete and devoted attention, with absolute _stars_ in his eyes. Even from here, Keith can see how the silver depths of them swirl and glisten, and he wonders how Adam could even possibly think they’re human.

They can’t hear the hushed conversation, but they _all_ know when Adam makes a joke because Shiro’s laugh is loud, bright, and _extremely_ genuine. His eyes crinkle as he smiles, cheeks flushed with a warm red that he doesn’t bother to hide with glamour. Keith isn’t even sure he thinks to do so. He’s been around human’s far too much for that. And who knows? Maybe he likes that Adam can see what he does to him.

And as they watch, Adam leans close, a coy smile on his lips as he mutters something low. And Shiro’s skin darkens even more, eyes going wide before he looks away, a shaky laugh escaping him. He looks down, busying himself with petting Kosmo— who has stationed himself at the grill and the smell of food— but even as he tries to hide his face, Keith can see how _happy_ he looks.

How soft his smile is.

How soft his gaze is.

And he feels so _full_. Chest fit to burst as warmth blooms and blossoms and spills out through his veins. Because he’s _happy_ for Shiro. A man who had his family taken away when his fey nature was revealed. A man who had his _life_ taken away when he was given the mantle of Knight. A man who has managed to reclaim a life for himself, a small pocket of family and contentment. A man who is learning to live again. To allow himself to be happy. To chase his desires like a true fey.

And here _Keith_ is, learning to do the same.

He looks around at the faces of his friends— of his _family_. Most of them are fey. Some of them are druids. One of them— hopefully, if Adam chooses to stay— is human.

And Keith…

He’s _happy_. In a way he never thought he’d be allowed. In a way he only ever once dared to dream about, when he was young, before those memories were taken away.

But they’re back now, and he’s more determined than ever to keep a firm hold on this happiness he’s found.

So he relaxes into the warm atmosphere. He doesn’t let himself worry about the mark on his chest or the Winter Queen’s druids. He laughs when Pidge and Matt use their druid abilities to trip Shiro with a wayward root, causing him to fall into Adam’s arms with a flustered stutter. He holds Lance’s hand like he never wants to let go.

And beneath their chair, where their ankles and hooked together, through the cracks in the patio stones, Keith can see a forget-me-not growing.

* * *

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Lance says, stepping warily into the garage, hand lingering on the door frame as his eyes dart around.

Keith can’t blame him for being nervous. Not even Shiro likes to be in the garage. It’s full of metal tools and chemicals and all the things Keith uses to fix up his bike. All the things that fey find repulsive and deadly.

“Do you trust me?” He asks, already moving over to one of the shelves to grab his newest helmet. One that’s blue. One with absolutely no metal components.

“You know I do, but…” Lance’s eyes linger on a rusted metal toolbox, nose curling in disgust as he takes in the smell of oil. “This seems… like a little much.”

“You’ve talked about wishing you could ride on my bike for _months_ now.” He steps up to Lance, pulling his attention back by pushing the helmet into his chest. He leans over it, head tilted, lips pulled up, voice low as he says, “Are you scared?”

Keith has the _immense_ pleasure of watching emotions flicker over Lance’s face.

He _knows_ Lance is fully capable of hiding his thoughts. He’s seen the mask. It’s even been used against him. He’s seen it hide all his pain and doubt and uncertainty, leaving only a bold, confident, and coy fey with the world wrapped around his finger.

But now, as every day goes by, that mask seems further and further away. Ever since his memories have been returned, Lance has been more lax. He lets Keith in, and he lets his emotions out. Wild and chaotic. Letting them touch every bit of his features. It’s beautiful. Like watching a flower bloom.

And Keith knows it’s a testament to how much Lance trusts him. How comfortable he is with him.

It reminds him of when they were younger, before Lance had perfected his mask and when they were both reckless and open.

Surprise. Shock. Offense. Pride. Stubbornness. Determination. Each and every one of them beautiful as they dance across Lance’s sharp features.

“You _wish_ ,” he snaps, taking the helmet from Keith as he glares, lips pursed into an adorable little scowl.

“You’ll be fine,” Keith says, chuckling softly. He reaches up— because he really can’t help himself— and tugs Lance forward by the back of his neck, kissing him slow and steady, smiling into it as he feels the tension melt out of him.

Then he pulls away, turning and heading back towards his bike.

“You’re wearing several layers of actual clothes and shoes, so that will protect your skin,” he says as he swings a leg over the bike, settling on the familiar, worn leather seat. “You’ll be holding onto me, and the only metal you might touch are the sides, but—“ He reaches out, pointing at the parts of his bike where he had used Velcro on thick squares of leather to cover the metal. It’s not pretty. It looks strange and out of place. But it makes Lance safer, so he doesn’t really care. “I covered up those parts. The soles of those boots will protect your feet.”

He smiles, holding his own helmet in his lap, but Lance still hesitates. Hovers near the door, fiddling with the helmet in his hands. He looks over the bike, wary and anxious.

“Lance…” Keith says softly, holding out a hand. “Trust me.”

He meets Keith’s gaze. He’s still nervous. Still biting his lip. Brows still furrowed. But his _eyes_. They swirl and swim with so much _warmth_. So much _trust_.

He takes a deep breath and steps forward, momentum never faltering as he strides toward Keith. He hesitates for only a moment before swinging a leg over the bike, settling on the seat behind him and shifting around to get a feel for it.

Keith feels him sigh, long, heavy, and relieved.

“See?” He says. “Nothing to worry about.”

“What about the druids?” Lance asks. “We’re supposed to be hiding. They could still be out looking for us. For _you_.”

Keith taps his finger loudly on his helmet, turning to smile over his shoulder. “They won’t be able to tell it’s us with the helmets. And since you’re wearing human clothes, they won’t even notice your glamour. We’re safe.”

Lance smiles, echoing, “We’re safe.”

“We’re doing this.”

His grin widens, breathless as the excitement finally starts to sink in. “We’re actually doing this.”

With helmets on and Lance’s arms wrapped tight around his waist, Keith walks the bike out of the garage, out into the street. He revs the engine just to hear Lance’s startled gasp. The bike roars to life, familiar vibrations running through him, comforting and grounding. Behind him, Lance is plastered to his back, but he’s here. He’s doing this. He trusts Keith.

No matter how nervous he is, Keith knows how desperately and wistfully Lance wants to try this.

And Keith? Keith just wants to make him happy.

They shoot off into the night, going far too fast for residential streets. He takes Lance into the city. Weaving through cars until the lights around them blur. He takes Lance out onto the country roads, where they can go fast and dangerous in the dark of the night.

Slowly, Lance starts to relax. Slowly, he starts to appreciate the thrill of it all. Eats up the danger. Trusts Keith to keep them safe. He stays plastered to Keith’s back, but he leans into the turns. He laughs, loud and long. He lifts a hand into the air just to feel the fast whip of the wind past his skin, tugging on his jacket. The air is cold as it tears past them, but Lance is all the warmth he needs.

And here, under the stars, moving fast with freedom singing in his veins, with Lance at his back and a laugh ringing in his ears, Keith feels truly _alive_ for the first time in a very, very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this calm before the storm :)
> 
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>  **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
> ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
> 
> I'm most active on twitter. More info in my pinned tweet <33 To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
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	8. Never Let Them See You Falter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have been going well.
> 
> For the first time in a long time, Keith feels _whole_. There are no more secrets between him and his friends. But this warm, blissful bubble can only last so long. And after a while, they need to get back into the swing of things. Keith needs to go back to work, and Lance needs to go back to the court. 
> 
> And Keith can't help but feel like he's waiting for the second shoe to drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is kicking my ass, but I hope these updates bring a spark of joy to your lives <33 Happy reading

As restless as they’ve been, and as wary and nervous as the situation has made them, the past few weeks with Lance have been a dream.

He’s been… _happy_. Truly and unabashedly _happy_. And so has Lance. Keith can see it. The way he’s able to really be _himself_. Around Keith. Around Shiro. Around Pidge and Hunk. He’s been able to watch Lance really bloom, and it’s been beautiful.

But unfortunately, all dreams must end.

He wakes one morning to find Lance already awake. Curled up at his side. Legs tangled. Propped up on an elbow while the other hand rests on Keith’s chest. Feeling his breath. Feeling his heartbeat. Protecting his mark. Keith meets his gaze— so open in his sorrow and worry— and Keith knows it’s time.

They’re reluctant to get out of bed. They take their time with it. Kissing sweetly as the sun filters through the blinds. Losing themselves in the feeling of each other’s lips. Hands roaming— not hungry, but delicately, memorizing each other.

And when they finally manage to slip from bed, they take a long shower. Where things get more heated. Touches more insistent. More desperate to feel _more_ , to have _more_ , to have each other pressed close and gasping and strung out tight—

They get dressed slowly, and the reluctance is palpable.

Lance dons his glamour, weaving together a beautiful, fanciful, and elaborate court outfit from nothing but light and magic. And with his glamour, his mask starts to slip back into place. A smile that projects and means so little. An expression carved from animated stone. Eyes, flickering like gemstones, but nothing more than mirrors and smoke.

He’s beautiful. Otherworldly. _Fey_.

Keith reaches out, if only to assure himself that Lance isn’t as untouchable as he seems. And just for a moment, a genuine smile breaks through. Gemstone eyes softening. He meets Keith’s hand with his own, takes it and holds it to his cheek, nuzzling into the palm. Kissing his fingertips. Each one. Gentle and featherlight.

Then he pulls Keith in, fingers in his hair, foreheads pressed tight.

“I’ll miss you.”

“Be safe.”

Lance slips out into the backyard. And as quick and graceful as he is, he disappears into the breeze. Over the fence. Into the woods. Gone like he had never been there.

The only evidence that remains is the single forget-me-not that Keith finds tucked behind his ear.

* * *

Going back to work is a surreal experience.

His head is only half in it, thoughts distant and fixated on Lance— their time spent together and worrying about what’s happening at court— but his body remembers what to do.

Figuring with weather permitting, driving to work is safer than taking the subway. Seeing as the fey seemed to know to look for him there, and his bike helmet at least hid his identity. The entire drive flies by in a daze. He handles his bike with muscle memory, going along the familiar streets, but his eyes dart along the sides of the road, flinching at every shimmering sign of fey.

When he gets to work, he parks in the back. They don’t know if the winter court knows where he works, or if they know that Shiro owns this shop, or even if they’re keeping an eye on Shiro. But in the past few weeks, Shiro hadn’t noticed any suspicious activity. In fact, it’s been quiet enough that he’s let Pidge come back into work.

Both of them look up when he comes in from the back. Shiro hovering near one of the chairs, halfway through a set up, and Pidge at the front desk. They look surprised. Eyes wide and brows furrowed.

Keith cuts them off before they can ask questions. “Lance went back.”

It’s all he says. All he needs to say. Their expression go from surprise to understanding to sympathy. He ducks away from it, hurrying into the back office to drop off his things.

He steps back out with his iPad in hand, keeping his head down, avoiding their curious and calculating eyes. “Pidge, can you start calling all my clients we put on hold and start rescheduling their appointments?”

“Sure thing.” And bless her, honestly, for not pushing it. For not asking questions. For letting Keith attempt to slip back into normalcy. “Don’t know if you’ll get any today though. We didn’t know you were coming in.”

Neither did he. “It’s alright. I’ll take any walk-ins. Work on some stencils I’ve been putting off.”

And it’s… strange to work again. To settle into his space. In his chair. With his tablet in front of him and sketching out designs like he’s so used to but hasn’t done in a while. It’s especially strange to do when his heart and head are elsewhere. When his thoughts are on Lance and his chest aches.

He feels so… empty.

Not empty like before. Not the same, cold, void of nothingness that he’s lived with for ten years. Not the feeling of having a piece of him missing and not knowing what. No, this is a new kind of emptiness. The emptiness that comes with having felt complete and whole, and then part of that wholeness taken from you—

No, that’s not quite right either. Lance wasn’t _taken_ from him.

He’s just… gone. For now, but not forever.

It’s the ache of… loneliness. Of missing someone you hold so dear. Someone who makes everything better and brighter. Of wishing someone was there and knowing they can’t be. And he can’t even text or call Lance to assuage the ache. When he’s in the fey realm, it’s just silence.

Not to mention the worry of what’s happening. Wondering if he’s okay. Worrying about what Allura might ask of him or what the court might say. Of what the winter court might do.

He might be the target of the last attack, but he finds he’s far more worried about Lance’s safety than his own.

His gaze catches on the vase of forget-me-nots on his station. Beautiful and pristine. Not a petal out of place. As perfect as the day each of them was found.

He takes this to mean Lance is safe, and he smiles, allowing himself to dwell on the lingering memory of Lance’s lips pressed against his own, so sweet and warm.

He misses Lance. He worries. But… he’ll be alright. They’ll be alright.

He supposes this is a feeling he’ll have to get used to if he wants to keep Lance in his life. And… that thought makes the burden feel lighter.

Because if this ache is the price of loving Lance, then he’s more than happy to bear it.

* * *

As strange as it feels to go back to his normal life and normal routine after everything that had happened— after everything he’s _remembered_ — it’s also surprisingly easy. He settles back into everything, into the life he’s built for himself, but just… with more knowledge.

About himself.

About his history.

About Shiro.

About Lance.

And it feels… better. He feels stronger for it, despite the mark on his chest. He feels closer to Shiro than ever now that there’s no more hiding and no more pretending. He takes their training sessions seriously, and Shiro no longer has to find reasons to push Keith into it. He knows what they’re for now, and he’ll train gladly. Long into the night, until they’re both covered in sweat, magic depleted, and bodies exhausted.

If anything, it’s a good distraction that keeps him from dwelling on thoughts of Lance.

And when he goes to shower, he spends time in front of the mirror. Shirtless. Fingers tracing the brand of the winter knight. Embracing the small bubble of pride that simmers in his chest. Because the pride is easier to deal with than the fear. Because the pride means that he saved Lance’s life, and he’ll never regret that.

He spends time with Pidge. Together, they spend more time with Hunk, who seems much more at ease now that Keith knows. In fact, he’s _more_ than willing to share stories about how _insufferable_ Lance has been watching Keith from afar. They’re stories that make Keith’s heart ache a little less. Make him smile a little more.

Lance may not be around all the time, and he may miss him terribly, but… he has good friends.

* * *

It’s a week before Keith finally— _finally_ — gets a text.

 **Lance**  
> I’m back. Meet me in the woods near the faerie ring.

It’s simple. Straight forward. To the point. Which is, admittedly, not like Lance at all, but Keith can’t bring himself to care. Because it’s _Lance_ , and he’s _back_.

He can admit to himself, in the privacy of his own mind, that his heart skips a beat when he sees the text. That warmth surges through him like a fire prickling beneath his skin. That he can practically _feel_ his magic humming in his veins, vibrating with excitement and bubbling with anticipation.

He can admit to himself that he’s got it bad, and yet he can’t bring himself to care.

He’s already typing up a reply as he stands.

 **Keith**  
> I’m at work. I’ll have to go home and pick up Kosmo

 **Lance**  
> No, come alone. There’s no time.  
> Hurry.

Keith’s heart skips a beat again, but this time for entirely different reasons. A cold shiver of dread crawls down his spine, putting out the fire and bringing with it a chill that settles deep in his bones.

His hands shake as he types, breath coming short and shallow.

 **Keith**  
> What happened? Are you okay?

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s packing up his things, haphazardly cleaning up his station and tossing his tablet into his bag.

“Where are you going?” Pidge asks from where she’s leaning back in her chair, feet kicked up on the front desk.

“Got a text from Lance. Gotta go.”

“Oooh, so loverboy calls and you come running.” There’s humor in her voice, a playful tease, but Keith doesn’t smile.

“Cover for me,” he says, short and clipped as he tosses his bag into the back room. He won’t need it where he’s going, and he can always come back for it later. “When Shiro comes back, just tell him I went to pick up Lance.”

Pidge picks up on the urgency in his voice, expression pinching into a concerned scowl as she says, “You’ve got it. Keith?” He pauses, one hand on the back door, glancing over his shoulder. “Be careful, okay?”

At that, he smiles. “I will.” And he hesitates, biting at his bottom lip, eyes flickering to the front windows and the street beyond. “Will you be okay here by yourself? Until Shiro comes back?”

She rolls her eyes, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it. I’m a big girl, Keith.”

“Well—“

“If that’s a short joke about to leave your mouth, I suggest you shut it.” He does, with a smile. She grins back. “Go on, then. Get your man.”

“Thank you, Pidge.”

“No problem.”

He hurries out the back of the building, pulling his helmet roughly over his head and throwing himself over his bike. He pulls out of the back lot with a roaring engine and burnt rubber on the asphalt.

* * *

It goes against his instincts to be here. In these woods. So close to a large faerie ring. One that sees such frequent use from fey of both courts.

He’s come here before, of course. Both to greet Lance and to say goodbye. But all those times, he had Kosmo. Half a second is all it would take for him to blink far, far away from here. It may have been dangerous— foolish, even— but he had a safety net.

Here and now, he’s on his own.

He can feel the magic vibrating in the air, rippling across his skin. It calls to him. It makes his hair stand on end. It’s a warning and a temptation all in one. If he listens carefully, he can hear the faint, crackling static of the portal itself.

It makes him shiver, stomach twisting with dread. He puts a hand to his chest, fingers pressing along the lines of his brand beneath his clothes. He can’t feel them, but he knows they’re there. He feels far more exposed than he used to. Raw and vulnerable. Despite the mark being hidden from sight.

He’s stayed off the main paths so far, knowing better than to walk along the faerie paths without Kosmo at his side. Instead he’s crept through the woods, leaving his bike close enough to reach should he need it, but far enough away to avoid suspicion. Hidden just off a back road, obscured by a bush.

He pauses, glancing around. Brows furrowed and lips pursed. He listens… but hears nothing. Nothing substantial. Nothing but the wind and distant static. Even so, every rustle of leaves has his head snapping to it, adrenaline thick in his veins and fear in his throat— but there’s never anything there.

His relief, however, is short lived.

Animals don’t even come this close, and yet he still hasn’t seen any sign of Lance.

He crouches low, putting his back to a tree and keeping to the shadows while he pulls out his phone. There’s still no response since his last text and that can’t be a good sign. Keith tries not to read too far into it, but he can’t help it. Lance hadn’t been acting right, and the urgency is alarming.

He hopes he’s not too late.

 **Keith**  
> I’m here, where are you?  
> Are you okay?

He waits.

And waits.

And _waits_.

He grits his teeth, eyes locked on his phone, occasionally flickering to his surroundings when the wind picks up and the forest rustles. The faerie ring is a constant buzz, distant but present. Calling to him. Itching across the back of his neck.

“Come on, Lance,” he whispers to himself, trying to find calm and strength in his own voice. “I swear to _god_ , if you don’t answer me.” He closes his eyes, hunching over to press his phone to his forehead. Breath shallow and short as he waits for it to vibrate.

A snap of a twig nearby—

The wind rolls by, bringing with it a chill that dances across his skin—

He gasps, head snapping up and scrambling to his feet. Heart pounding, in his throat, smile already curling at his lips. “Lance,” he breathes. Turning. One hand on the tree, he pivots around it. “ _Lance_ —“

He freezes. Heart stopping in his chest. The chill in the air isn’t the playful crisp breeze of an autumn morning. It’s bitterly cold, and it’s getting worse by the second. A cold that feels like sharp needles prickling across his flesh. Crystalizing. Seeping down to his bones. Fighting the natural fire that burns in his chest.

He shivers violently, body tensing as it vibrates through him from head to toe.

This isn’t the chill that Lance’s presence brings. This isn’t the cold air of a night around a bonfire.

This is ice.

This is winter.

A rustling catches his attention, and his head snaps in that direction—

Eyes. Four of them. Slitted and narrow. Glowing faintly yellow. Carved deep into a narrow, bone white face. A tall body, with limbs far too long to be human. Dark cloak blending into the shadows.

Another rush of cold wind, and he sees another. Coming from another direction. Both of them in the shadows of the forest. Eyes on him. Pinning him with their gazes. Slowly creeping forward, moving without touching the plants around them. As if they move by shadow. As if the forest itself bends out of their path.

And then a rush of wind hits him from behind, causing him to stumble a step. A bitter chill that cuts through his clothes, tearing through his ribs.

“Well, well, isn’t this a wonder.”

 _That voice_. It fizzles through Keith like lightning, sharp and sudden, leaving him trembling in shock— trying to get his bearings— trying to place the memory to the fear and that voice—

“I had heard that the two of you had been seen together. I had known he was quite fond of you. But I doubted even he could wrap a knight around his finger so thoroughly.”

He knows that voice— he knows it. _He knows it_. He’s frozen, heart in his throat, breaths coming short and quick. His mind feels scrambled, but his body remembers. Remembers to fear. Remembers… _rage_.

“It seems I was wrong.”

He clings to the rage. Feels it burn hot. Clings to it and uses it as a spark to ignite the magic in his core. Feeling the flames unfurl, blooming, flickering out hot and wild in his veins. Melting away the chill of fear. Burning through the ice of dread.

He’s cornered. He’s surrounded. But he’s sure as fuck not out. Not yet. This is what Shiro has been training him for.

His forearm _burns_ , birthmark igniting in fire as his magic _surges_. He doesn’t have time to dwell on the prickling of needles beneath his skin. Just grits his teeth against the pain— uses the familiarity of it to ground himself— as his dagger surges out of his palm.

It’s quick. It’s fluid. He’s been practicing.

The moment his fingers curl around the handle, he’s whipping around, falling into a defensive stance with the weapon held at the ready. His other hand curls, flame flickering between his fingertips, pulled from his palm.

Fire magic. He’s been practicing that, too.

The man— the _fey_ — isn’t like the others. Isn’t one of the cloaked henchmen that the winter queen has sent after him before. He isn’t the same sort of fey that watches him from the woods.

He’s a high fey. Just like Lance.

He’s tall. Far taller than any human Keith has ever known. Broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Arms just a hair too long. Fingers eerily slender and clawed. Features too sharp to be human. Long, pointed ears and long snow white hair pushing back from his forehead to fall down his back. Purple irises nestled in startlingly yellow sclera.

A wicked and charming smile. Too confident. Too casual. Too malicious beneath the glint of his fangs.

Despite being in the human realm, he doesn’t wear a glamour.

Keith knows him— _he knows him_ —

“Oh, my.” He eyes Keith’s dagger curiously, head tilting to the side, smirk curling wider. “Marmora blood. How serendipitous.”

“ _You_.”

His eyes flicker to Keith’s, one delicate brow raising. “Me,” he says, unimpressed. “Do you know me?”

“I know of you,” Keith growls between clenched teeth. He spits the name. “ _Lotor_. Prince of the winter court.” _The one who had tried to get Lance’s real name. The one who had left Lance to die in a collapsed building full of iron and rust._

“Very good.” His grin is positively delighted. It makes Keith’s stomach roll. “Then I shall forgo introductions, and we shall get down to business, shall we?”

He snaps his fingers, and there’s a spark— just before the wind rushes in, cold and biting. It swirls around Keith in a vortex, too quickly for him to do anything but brace himself, eyes squeezed shut against the force of it, hair and clothes whipping and snapping—

Hands on his arms— No, _claws_. Large hands with fingers that are too long, curled and sharp. They grab at one arm, twisting it painfully behind his back. He shouts, tries to fight it— but the other hands are at his other arm, nails digging into his forearm, biting into his birthmark—

He feels magic pressing into him. Into that spot. Trying to dampen his blood magic. Trying to get him to dismiss his dagger.

He grits his teeth and opens his eyes. The wind has died down, but it’s bitterly cold. The hands on him feel like ice. They _burn_.

He finds himself face to face with one of the cloaked fey. The narrow bone face showing nothing but four slitted yellow eyes. No pupils. No irises. The bone face narrows at the bottom, jutting out from the hood. He sees nothing beneath it. Only darkness.

He’s not sure if it’s a mask or the fey’s skull.

The hands on his arm are covered in grey skin. Each finger has an extra joint. Beneath the mask, he has hear an inhuman hiss, echoed and disjointed.

He glares at it.

Spits in its face.

And when it recoils, he rips his arm from its grasp, slashing at it with his dagger to force it to step away, then turning on the one standing behind him, holding his arm behind his back—

A sharp click of a tongue catches his attention. “Now, now. None of that.”

As he turns, intent on attacking the fey behind him, he catches sight of Lotor— and freezes.

There, dangling between Lotor’s fingers, is Lance’s phone.

“What—“

“I suggest you surrender yourself.” Lotor lifts a brow, pinning him with a sharp gaze. “And put that blade of yours away.”

“Where’s Lance?” He spits, struggling once more when the fey grabs his arm again. But his struggles are half hearted, gaze still locked on Lotor.

His grin is toothy. His fangs sharp. “Stop fighting my mother’s servants, and I will tell you.”

Keith pauses, not out of surrender, but out of suspicion. He narrows his eyes. “Are you… making a deal with me?”

“I am trying, yes.” He dangles the phone once more, tauntingly. “Just know that where ever your dear Lance is, he will not be needing this anymore.” He drops it to the ground, letting it settle before slamming his heel down on it, shattering the glass.

Keith winces, and feels his own will shatter along with it.

Everything in him is telling him to fight. His father’s warnings. Shiro’s voice. His own instincts. But Lance… if they have Lance, Keith needs to know. If they have Lance— if they’ve hurt him—

“Fine,” he bites out, letting his body go limp. He releases his dagger, and for the briefest of moments, his magic protests. Still running hot and heavy in his veins, his very blood humming with power and the drive to _fight, run, survive_ — but he forces it down, and the dagger slips back into his palm, settling back beneath his skin, prickling and writhing, like an angry snake eager to strike.

It doesn’t take them long to take advantage of this. They shove him to his knees. Both arms wretched behind his back, causing him to hiss in pain. He kneels there, hunched and panting— with adrenaline, with fear, with rage— as Lotor steps closer, over the remains of Lance’s crushed phone to loom over him.

And then he kneels down, putting them on eye level.

Keith meets his gaze and refuses to look away. He’s defying everything he had ever been taught about dealing with the fey, but those rules won’t protect him now. Not when he’s the winter knight. Not when they see him as part of their court.

Those rules, after all, are for preemptive protection. They do nothing when he’s already this deep.

So he glares at Lotor. Stares with a challenge in his eyes. Jaw set and scowl darkening his features. He debates whether or not to spit in his face. Decides to wait until after he hears about Lance.

“You are an interesting one, aren’t you?” Lotor muses, unperturbed by Keith’s unflinching gaze. If anything, he seems intrigued by it. He searches Keith’s face, intent and thoughtful, calculating and sharp. “Yes, it’s definitely you. But just to make sure…”

His hand comes out suddenly, grabbing Keith’s collar and ripping downward. Keith tries to jerk away but is held still, a half formed shout of protest caught in his throat—

But there’s nothing he can do as Lotor’s sharp claws tear his shirt, shredding down the front of it to reveal the mark on his chest.

“Ah, there it is. So my mother’s intel was correct.” His eyes flicker back up to Keith’s, and there’s… _something_ there. Something beneath the casual confidence that he displays. Something that doesn’t show in his voice nor his demeanor. There are ripples of it across that mask of an expression he wears… but it’s gone before Keith can piece it together. “Your defiance will have to be dealt with. Some will think we should just kill you to give the mantle to someone more deserving, but I believe you will do just fine.”

His hand darts out again, catching Keith’s jaw, holding it painfully in a tight grip, nails biting into his skin.

“ _Where’s. Lance._ ” He bites out, trying and failing to pull his chin out of Lotor’s grasp.

“Yes, of course. A deal is a deal, isn’t it?” The fey just smirks. Amused. Cocky. “At the summer court. No doubt at Allura’s side as she entertains an envoy of winter fey that I sent specifically to distract them. Stealing this human contraption of his was fairly simple. I had my doubts about whether or not you would respond, but I underestimated your blind attachment to Lance.”

Keith’s heart drops. The chill from the feys’ hands seep into his bones, cooling his own magic, making goose bumps rise. Even his blood goes still.

There’s a ringing in his ears.

Fear is a lump in his throat.

He can’t breathe—

“And now we have our knight.” He forces Keith’s chin up, his head at a painful angle as he looms over him. Breath cold on his cheeks. “But this will never do. You’re far too human like this. We’ll have to remove this pesky glamour from you.”

Glamour?

But he doesn’t—

“I don’t—“

Lotor’s nails dig in harder, cutting him off. Something flashes in his eyes. Something that’s gone just as quickly as it arrived. Something that doesn’t bleed out onto his mask. But Keith knows that look.

A… warning?

“Of course, you do. All changelings are given a glamour at birth. A strong one, at that. Pesky things. Out of their control and difficult to remove. Especially one that’s been left intact for this long. No wonder you went so long undetected. But no matter. It’s nothing I cannot handle.”

Before he can think of what to say— before it even fully processes— cold surges out of Lotor’s fingers. Unlike anything he’s felt before. It _burns_ , but not like his own magic does. It’s invasive. It’s painful. It creeps across his skin like ice, and he can feel it crystalize.

It moves quickly, and he struggles.

But they hold him, and he can’t fight it.

It presses against him. A magic so thick and choking. It fills the air, cold and suffocating. He gasps for air, but the ice fills his nose, slips past his parted lips, dives deep into his lungs—

He’s never felt so cold— so empty— so hollow and numb— not even his fear can break through, muted and distant as his mind retreats in on itself, pulling away from his body as it’s chased away by this foreign magic—

All he can do is stare at Lotor. Eyes wide. Fear crawling down his spine.

Lotor tilts his head. His purple eyes glow, swirling with fractals of magic. His smile is apologetic, but he does not apologize. Fey never do. “This will hurt.”

And then all he knows is _pain_.

The ice crystalized on his skin turns into shards— digging deep— tearing and ripping— pulling him apart at the seams— searing his flesh from his bones and then piercing those— freezing his blood as it boils and writhes in protest—

He thinks he screams. His throat aches with it, but he can’t hear it.

And then all he knows is darkness.

* * *

He comes to consciousness slowly, shying away from it as his head aches with every beat of his heart. Every pulse sends pain sizzling through him. Splitting his head. Frying his veins. Crackling across his limbs. His skin is hypersensitive, feeling raw and new.

He’s never been flayed, but goddamn is that the image that comes to mind as he thinks about the ice encasing his body before magic burned deep.

As much as he tries to pull away from his pounding headache, he can’t fight the surge of consciousness. And as he comes back into his body, he tries to take note of everything.

Everything: hurts.

There’s a bone deep ache, not unlike the day after a heavy sparring session. But there’s more than that. There’s the raw, tingling sensation on his skin. Like he can feel every fiber of his clothes, every shift in the air, and every detail in the floor below him.

It’s cold, for one. Rough, uneven stones. Large and rounded at the edges. Closely fit together. They’re smooth, but it doesn’t feel purposeful. It feels natural. Due to years and years of being worn down. Like cobblestones, but tighter and neater.

His cheek presses to the cold surface, and the chill is at least soothing to the pain pounding in his head.

His hands twitch, fingers curling, nails scraping along the stone—

His nails have never been this long before, but there’s some definite distance between nail tip and the pad of his fingers. And there’s definitely a sharp _scrape_ as he drags them against the stone. Not to mention his nail-beds ache, now that he’s focusing on them. He never thought that would be a place to ache, but here he is.

He opens his eyes— only to have his vision swim.

He squeezes them shut, groaning as his body starts to tense, curling in on himself as he struggles to shake off the clinging fog of unconsciousness.

When he tries again, everything is still swimming, spinning, but… he blinks, rapidly and fiercely, and slowly things start to focus.

He focuses on the ground first, right in front of his face. Stone, just as he thought. Cobbled together with perfect squares that are smoothed on the edges from wear. Dark stone. Some dirt and dust. Clearly it hasn’t been cleaned in some time. And— just in front of him, a large, maroon rug. Although dirty, it looks plush and silky and soft to the touch.

But of course he was left on the stone floor rather than that rug.

Still, a rug like that seems… out of place for a prison cell. Which is what he expected to wake up in.

Because he very much remembers. The cloaked, bone faced fey. The ice of their touch. Being forced to his knees. Lotor. _Lotor_. His magic, burning across Keith’s skin, ripping him apart—

He should look around. Get his bearings. Figure out where he is and how to escape. He has to get home. To Shiro. To _Lance_ —

But then his eyes catch on his hand, and his breath catches as his heart leaps into his throat. He freezes, body once more going rigid. And he _stares_. Stares and tries to make sense of it. Blinks because surely this must be a dream.

But it doesn’t go away.

Doesn’t fade like an illusion.

He clenches his fist, but nothing changes. Spreads his fingers wide, but it stays the same.

His hand looks _mostly_ the same as it always has, but his skin… it’s… _purple_. His nails are dark and grown thick, just a little longer than his fingertip, moving into manicured points. _Claws_.

He stares.

And stares.

And _stares_.

But it doesn’t change. It’s just… his hand.

Pushing his hands to the floor, he pushes himself up, shifting until he’s sitting. It makes his head spin, and he has to close his eyes for a moment, breathing long and slow to steady himself. And when he opens his eyes, he stares down at his palms.

They’re both like that. Purple and clawed. He hastily shrugs out of his jacket— only to find his arms are, too. They look no different than they had before. They’re just… _purple_.

“ _Fuck_ —“ he breathes, but… his jaw aches. His _gums_ ache. And his teeth feel weird as he forms the _F_ sound.

His hands shoot to his mouth— only to push the pad of his thumb against _fangs_. Four of them. Two top, and two bottom. Not huge, but definitely noticeable. Sharp, too, wincing as he pulls his thumb away.

“What the hell…”

Then he finally looks around… and finds himself gaping.

The room he’s in… It’s _beautiful_. The ceiling rises and domes, pillars from the walls creating interlacing archways high above. The floor and walls are all made from the same, dark stone, and the masonry is exquisite. The pillars periodically around the room, half imbedded into the walls, are intricately carved, decorated with scenes and symbols that Keith can’t quite make out from his spot on the floor.

The maroon rug takes up much of the center of the room, and he finds that he was dumped just inside the door. A large door made of dark, heavy wood.

The furniture is made of the same sort of wood, some of it with a deep red hue. They’re all large and elaborate. Needlessly complicated and designed. And the bottoms of them… sprawling roots crawl out, like the things had been planted and grown from the stone itself.

A dresser. A vanity. A table and two cushioned, tall backed chairs. Several book shelves. An ornate writing desk. A window seat, wide and cushioned.

And a large, elaborate, four post bed raised up on a short dais, sheer curtains draped around it.

Everything is in colors of deep red, dark purple, and blue. Navy blues. Midnight blues. Slate blues and grays. Black and white. The decorations are many and rich. From the blankets on the bed, to the tall curtains that cover windows on the far wall, to the rug, to the chairs, to the tapestries that hang from the walls.

While the windows are covered, there are several wooden sconces around the walls, curling from the stone like plants, shaped perfectly to hold large crystals about the size of Keith’s head. They’re light blue, glowing faintly, casting the room in an icy light.

It’s… a bedroom. A very _rich and elaborate_ bedroom. A bedroom that’s dressed for royalty. A bedroom that hovers on this strange edge between being warm, inviting, and homey, to being too formal, cold, and decorative.

And most of it is covered in a layer of dust.

He climbs to his feet, legs shaky as he makes his way over to a large, ornate mirror that stands not too far away. He stumbles in front of it, freezing as he takes himself in. The surface is grimy with disuse, but… he can see himself.

He can see what he’s become.

His skin is purple all over— a very _light_ shade of purple, upon closer inspection. A pale violet. His hair is no longer black, but a dark purple, but the bottom layer is different, a shade of deep magenta. His ears are longer, pointed at the tips and at the lobes.

And his eyes… the whites are now yellow.

He leans close, pressing his fingers to his face, his fangs, his hair, his ears. It’s all so real. He’s so different, and yet… he’s not different at all. His bone structure didn’t change. His proportions didn’t change. He’s not otherworldly and doesn’t have a face that’s too sharp.

He’s just… himself, but purple.

But that’s still a very strange thing.

He stumbles back a step, taking it all in. He still wears his clothes, jacket discarded on the floor and shirt torn open at the front to reveal a pale violet chest with the black insignia of the winter knight.

And that’s when it _really_ starts to sink in.

The air here… it’s different than he’s used to. There’s a vibration in it, subtle but definite. Constant. Dancing across his skin and weaving through his hair and filling every breath. It’s an energy. It’s _power_. Not good, nor evil. Just… _magic_.

It fills him, coaxes that tight knot of fire he keeps buried in his chest. Stokes the flames gently, until a hearth fire burns beneath his ribs.

His blood bubbles with it, reaching for the magic that flickers across his skin with the breeze. Eager and excited.

The air here is thicker. It feels _alive_. _Everything_ feels alive.

He’s never been here, but he knows where he is.

He’s in the fey realm.

* * *

Upon closer inspection, Keith has come to the conclusion that although it looks as though he’s in a bedroom, he’s most certainty _trapped_ in said bedroom.

There seems to be a barrier around the door and the windows, allowing him to get close but not to actually touch. It’s invisible until he reaches out, shimmering to existence and feeling like ice when he touches it.

It may not look like it, but he’s not fooled. This room is his prison.

* * *

When the door finally opens, Keith is waiting. He sits in one of the tall backed, cushioned chairs. Jacket back on and zipped up to cover his chest. Arms crossed. One foot on the ground and the other on the edge of the small table, knee bent.

He glares at the door, expecting either a cloaked fey, or Lotor, or even the winter queen.

The woman who walks in is none of those things… At least he assumes so. She doesn’t look like much of a queen.

Pale blue skin and dark blue hair that falls to her jawline. Two sets of two black horns that lie close to her skull, half obscured by her hair. Pointed ears. Yellow sclera. Dark lips. She’s not as tall as Lotor, probably closer to Keith’s height, but she holds herself like she is.

Like she’s important. Like she expects to be obeyed. Like she’s commanding respect. Like a general.

“Are you sure you don’t need us in there. Lotor said he was wild.” Another figure stands in the doorway, peering through. A much larger fey, bulky and built intimidatingly strong. Large eyes narrow in Keith’s direction. “He doesn’t look it, though.”

“We can help rough him up for you.” Another figure. Tall, lean, and lithe. A long ponytail of various colors and bright, curious eyes as she leans around the larger one. “C’mon, let us play with the fresh blood.”

“That won’t be necessary.” The first fey turns to them, one hand on the door. “Don’t let anyone in until I’m done with him. Lotor’s orders.”

Then the door closes, and they’re alone.

The silence stretches as they size each other up. Her gaze roves over him, her face a mask of indifference. She looks bored, uninterested, but Keith knows how to read fey. He can see the sharp look in her eyes and how carefully she considers him.

He glares back, giving her not an inch of ground.

When she starts to move toward him, he tenses, but she doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t really approach him. She falls into the other chair across the table and lets out a small, frustrated sigh. He lifts an eyebrow as she relaxes back, arms resting on the arms of the chair, hands dangling at the wrists. She looks almost relaxed, almost tired, but still held at the ready, just on edge. Much like him.

She says nothing, and neither does he.

She glares at Keith, and he glares back.

Her eyes narrow, and so do his.

Then her lips twitch at one corner, and he dares to think she’s smiling.

“You can call me Acxa,” she says simply. She waits for a moment, and when he says nothing, she continues. “I’ve heard I can call you Keith.” When he keeps his silence, she sighs, leaning her head back against the seat, eyes still on his. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

At least he can take that for the truth.

“Then why are you here?” He bites out. “Why am _I_ here?”

Her smirk holds no real amusement, her tone wry as she says, “I think you know why you’re here.” He scoffs— just a short puff of an exhale through his nose— and she continues. “As for why _I’m_ here. I’ve been sent with a message and to prepare you.”

He holds himself steady. “Prepare me for what?”

Her eyes flicker between his, observing his face and quickly darting to his posture before returning. “In three days’ time, you’ll be introduced to the court. Lotor has convinced them to keep you as our knight, and so, you must be prepared.”

“Prepared _how?_ ”

“Prepared for what you will face as a member of this court. As an _important_ member of this court.” She waves an idle hand, gesturing around them. “Not everyone gets a room like this.”

“Not everyone gets a _prison_ like this.”

“Your tongue is sharp,” she observes. “Useful in some instances, but you’ll need to learn how to hold it in others. If you want to survive.”

He feels the cold shiver of dread, creeping down his spine. “Is that part of my preparations?”

She nods. “Partially. You’ll also need to learn our customs. For as wild as you were made out to be, and for how sharp your tongue is, you’re surprisingly good as hiding your thoughts. That is good. It will make things easier. You’ll also need to learn how to use glamour.” Her eyes flicker down, and eyebrow raising. “You will need to be presented in proper attire, and here, we use our glamour to weave our clothes.”

“I don’t—“ he catches himself, nearly biting his tongue as his mouth snaps shut. He jaw works for a moment, gums aching where his fangs have grown in. He takes a breath. “I don’t know how to do that.”

Because he can’t admit that he doesn’t have it. That would out him immediately. And he’s _very_ aware of what court he’s in and how they see ironbloods.

Her smile, however small, is sharp. Eyes sparkling with amusement. “That is why I’m here to teach you. _All_ fey can harness basic illusion magic. Glamour in our blood. No matter how… diluted.”

His heart skips a beat, and his eyes narrow.

“They won’t expect your glamour to be perfect,” she continues. “In fact, because they believe you to be a changeling, they will expect it to be terrible, and they will mock you for it. They will mock you for everything, and you must hold your tongue.”

_Because they believe you to be…_

Keith has grown up with Shiro— and _Lance_ , he realizes, with a pleasant fluttering of his heart. He’s grown up with tame fey who dance around the truth, and he’s learned to read subtext. To read around the truth that’s presented to him.

“You know…” He breathes, wary and low.

She nods once more, giving him a knowing look. “Lotor has informed the court that you are a changeling who has been unaware of his heritage, wrapped up and sealed in a glamour by the summer court to keep you hidden from us.”

Keith’s eyes widen, pulse in his ears. “He knows…”

“He has convinced them that you need time to prepare for your duties, and they will be showing you off to the court in three days. They’ve even invited an envoy from the summer court to witness and confirm the knight’s return.”

The silence stretches. Acxa watches him, observant and still as stone, and Keith tries to process. To collect himself. To hold his composure as he tries to figure out what all of this _means_.

“Why do I look like this…?” He whispers, meeting her gaze. “Is this a spell he put on me?”

Acxa regards him for a moment, taking him in, head tilting almost curiously. “No. These are… _characteristics_ that reside in your blood. All of _you_ ,” she says it carefully, but he hears the unvoiced word— _ironbloods_ — “Have these traits, but they are deeply buried. I do not think they would ever emerge on their own, but Lotor… the royal bloodlines have strong magic. He was able to pull your true self to the surface.”

Keith scoffs, looking away with a roll of his eyes. “This isn’t my _true self_.”

“It is.” Her voice lowers, a whisper that he’s surprised he can hear. She speaks hushed and quick. The intensity of her gaze makes him shiver. “This is what you would look like if your human blood didn’t dampen your fey blood. This is who you would have been if you had grown up in our lands.” She pauses, thoughtful for a moment. “You still look very human, but we can work with that. It gives you a look of the high fey— though as a Marmora, I suppose you are. Just a disgraced blood line. But the court will think the more human look is a choice, which will be believable, given your changeling story. Though be prepared for them to mock you for it.”

“I don’t expect any kindness from them.”

Acxa’s smirk is wicked and sharp. “Good. Then you may just survive.”

“You said you also had a message for me.”

She nods, then sits up, putting her arms on the table and leaning forward. He… doesn’t want to get close to her, but there’s something about the shift in her demeanor. Something about the hardened look in her eyes. Something about the way she frowns, just slightly… it makes him lean forward, wary but curious.

She looks far more serious than she had moments ago, and somehow he feels like the mask has been dropped.

“My… lover is not common knowledge,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, making Keith lean in a fraction more. Her jaw works from side to side, her eyes darting to the door. “And I would loathe to have the court know of her and me.”

Keith blinks, brows furrowing. His mouth opens for a moment, then closes. He tries again, shifting awkwardly under the intensity of her stare. “That… isn’t what I was expecting.”

She smirks, and this time, her amusement seems genuine. “No, I suppose not. But it _is_ relevant. She is of the summer court, and her name is Veronica.”

Keith’s heart trips, breath coming in quick and sharp.

Acxa’s eyes never leave his. “She wants you to be good, play nice, and pretend. To put that blood of yours to use and lie. To be patient for once in your life and not do anything stupid.” Her lips twitch at that. “Her words, not mine.”

“Is she…” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Are they… coming for me?” He whispers. “Lance…?”

Acxa just smiles, leans back in her chair, and steeples her fingers in front of her face. “It’s time to prepare you for court.”

* * *

“Have fun with your little training session!” One of the other guards sings. The tall, slim, lithe one. She stands in the hall as Acxa enters the room, leaning around her to wave her fingers at Keith.

He just glares, arms crossed over his chest. Acxa has encouraged him to keep up the scowl and glare. It’s as good a mask as any while he’s here, and not only will it be easier for him to maintain, but it also might keep some fey from fucking with him.

It has no effect on the woman though— Ezor, he’s told to call her.

Zethrid, the large hulking one, just chuckles. “Didn’t know when Lotor brought home the knight, he was actually bringing Acxa a lover.”

“She needs it. She’s far too uptight.”

Acxa ignores them, slamming the door shut behind her. The barrier around it shimmers back into place before fading.

Only once they’re alone does she sigh, exasperation clear. He’s found that Acxa, despite how she appears, is actually quite expressive. At least around him. It’s subtle, but it’s… honestly a little like looking in the mirror. Everything about reading her is exactly what Pidge has said about him.

She collapses into the chair across from him, and they both share a withering look. There’s an unspoken agreement not to talk about the others’ assumptions about their relationship. There’s little point to arguing with them, and at least this way they’ll be left in private for these lessons.

Acxa’s gaze then slides to the table between them, one brow lifting as she looks over the meal spread out on a platter. It matches the one on the silver platter near the door. One from last night and one from this morning. Both untouched. And yet despite the passage of time, the food looks as fresh as ever. Unwilted. Unsoiled. Delicious and tempting. He’s willing to bet even the serving temperature is unchanged.

Fey food is a marvel, but one he hasn’t indulged in.

“You will have to eat eventually.” Her gaze slides back to him. “You’ll weaken without it.”

He huffs a long, frustrated sigh through his nose, looking away.

“I know where your hesitation lies. The reputation of faerie food proceeds itself, and has been a tool to trap humans here for millennia.” Her lips curl into an amused smile. “But you are not human. It will not be dangerously addictive, nor will it ruin human food for you. It is simply… food. Though I personally think it’s better than what you eat in the human realm.”

Keith glares at her for a moment, weighing her words. She’s taken to being blunt with him, knowing that unless she says something that can’t possibly be misconstrued, he’ll hesitate believing her. He appreciates her straight forward honesty, and he’s come to appreciate her company because of it.

“Fine.” He reaches out for some sort of bun, gleaming on top with butter and sugar, fluffy and round and delicate. When he bites into the sweet roll, a jam unlike anything he’s ever tasted comes to life on his tongue.

Embarrassingly, he groans.

Acxa chuckles. “We’ll get to work once you’re done. Would you like some privacy?”

He scowls at her, practicing the art of staying silent by stuffing his face with food.

* * *

Keith throws open the doors to the large wardrobe, immediately forced into a coughing fit as dust is thrown into the air. When he recovers, squinting through the tears in his eyes, he gasps— which just causes him to cough more.

“What the…” he wheezes between breaths.

“That is a weapons closet,” Acxa says from across the room where she’s pulling back the heavy, velvet curtains. He’s been moping around in the dark long enough, and curiosity about his new surrounding has gotten the best of him.

“Yeah, thanks,” he mutters, gaze moving slowly around the inside of the wardrobe. Weapons of every sort: swords, daggers, axes, whips, mauls, flails, and a wide variety of sharp, pointy things that look cool but Keith has no name for. None of them are made from iron. It’s all wood and crystal, decorated in silver and gold and gems. Yet they look just as deadly— if not more so— than their human realm counterparts. “I can see that. It’s a whole arsenal.”

Acxa hums thoughtfully. “Not quite. Those are just Sendak’s favorites.”

A shiver runs down Keith’s spine at the name, stomach twisting and recoiling as memories of a missing eye and a malicious grin flicker through his mind— Lance’s screams, Shiro’s blood, Keith’s own chest burning— “Sendak? The old knight?”

“The one you must have killed, yes. These are the knight’s quarters, and thus his old room.”

“It seems pretty barren…” he mutters. For as decadent and rich as this room is, there’s not much of a personal touch. Little more than a dressed up display or a hotel room.

“He didn’t spend much time here. If any at all.”

He closes the wardrobe doors, sealing away Sendak’s private collection. The majesty of the weapons has soured.

When he turns, his breath is taken away. “Whoa…”

Acxa has pulled open all the curtains, revealing three large, floor length windows. Each one has intricate designs of silver running through them, holding the panes in place, like stained glass without the color, creating a monochrome design.

She turns to look at him. “Have you not looked outside since you arrived?”

“No. It hadn’t crossed my mind.” It’s a lie. A benefit of being an ironblood. Truthfully, he _had_ thought about it, he just… didn’t want to. The thought was too overwhelming. Too terrifying. It would make this whole thing that much more real. He never wanted to be in the fey realm— always feared it.

But now he steps up to the windows beside Acxa and gazes out into a land of magic and wonder. A land unlike anything he’s ever known.

And yet it’s a land that sings to his blood.

The winter court is located in a castle palace. That much Acxa has told him. A sprawling and intimidating structure of stone and crystal, with gardens of winter roses and icy blooms. Surrounded by perpetual winter. Nestled in a mountain valley.

Outside the window, the mountains rise around them in a perfect bowl. Forests of ever greens and skeletal trees, covered in snow and a layer of ice that forms the shape of the leaves that they’re missing, blowing in the wind like actual living leaves.

The palace rises up out of the center of the valley, dark stone and spires. Gothic in architecture. Intimidating. Beautiful. Haunting. Breathtaking.

An icy lake glimmers in the valley below.

The sky is crystal clear, shades of pink, orange, gold, and violet span across the blue expanse in wide brush strokes. On the lighter western horizon, he can see the last rays of the sun crawling over the mountains. And in the darker eastern horizon, he can see the faint sparkle of stars where the sky goes navy.

He knows that this is how the sky will always look here. A realm of perpetual twilight. A moment of the in-between, trapped in time and locked in its own bubble of space.

“It’s… beautiful,” he whispered, quiet and awed as he looks across the icy kissed landscape, snow reflecting the painted colors of the sky.

“Of course it is,” Acxa says from his side, a soft smile on her face.

“I… didn’t expect that.”

She doesn’t have to ask what he means. “Winter is just as beautiful as summer.”

“I know, but… this court has a reputation.”

“The winter court is known for being harsh, but we simply do not mince words or hide our intentions behind sunny smiles like the summer court. I know what they teach you in the human realm. I know how your people see us. But… much of that reputation has come with Zarkon’s reign.” Her expression goes tight. Eyes steeled and lips pursed into a small frown. “Fundamentally, we are no different than the summer court. We oppose each other, but we are not opposites. There is no good or evil amongst the fey, only the powerful and the powerless. Fey can be judged by individuals, not by court. You would do well to remember that.”

He knows that better than most. Having grown up being warned of any and all fey, then falling in love with one, loving another as family, and building friendships with more.

He doesn’t trust the winter court, and he’ll admit that he’s absolutely terrified to be here.

But… he can admit that the fey realm, this pocket of winter, is beautiful.

* * *

Learning to use his glamour is hard. Far harder than Acxa anticipated. She doesn’t try to hide her impatience.

Utilizing basic illusion magic for fey is second nature. Glamour comes to them as naturally as breathing. They don’t have to concentrate on it. They barely have to think about it. It’s as effortless as deciding to walk or flick one’s wrist. A subconscious thought followed by an action.

They take the magic out of the very air. Out of their core. It’s part of them. Their blood. Their energy. They take the quintessence of the universe around them and manipulate it on a microscopic level. They build clothes out of nothing but air and light, solidifying them into something _real_. They can use it to hide from human eyes and to alter their appearances.

Fey have many types of magic affinities, but glamour is part of who they are. A fey without mastery of glamour would be no different from a human not knowing how to eat. It’s fundamental. Instinctual at the core, and the later finesse is learned.

Keith, however, never had to learn.

It takes almost a full day for Acxa to even help him figure out _how_ to access that part of himself. It’s a corner of his magic that he’s never touched, and when he finally figures out what to do, he realizes that it barely feels like magic. Or at least nothing like his fire or blood affinities.

It’s new, and light, and airy, and the first time he makes clothes, he’s convinced Acxa can see right through them. Even with the weight of them, and even seeing their solidity with his own eyes, his mind can barely comprehend that it’s _real_. That he _willed something into existence_.

It takes some effort, but once he figures out what to do, the instincts comes easily. Crafting his glamour becomes second nature, but they run into a couple more snags.

 _Holding_ his glamour takes longer to learn. He wants to concentrate on it, holding it with an iron like grip in his mind, until a vein is popping in his temple and a headache is brewing. But that just makes it harder to hold. Makes his glamour tremble and waver and dissipate.

Acxa tells him that it needs to be like _breathing_. Natural. Build it, will it into existence, and then trust it to stay. It _will_ stay until he dismisses it. Thinking about it, worrying about it, just makes it worse.

It’s a difficult concept to adjust to, and he practices after Acxa has left him for the day.

With nothing else to do and knowing that this is an integral skill to have to keep up his charade and survive at court, Keith practices long into the night.

But not just constructing clothes from glamour.

He stands in front of the mirror and layers the illusion magic over his body. It clings to him like a second skin. Like static tingling against his flesh. Like a silken blanket wrapped tight.

He makes his ears look shorter and rounded. He hides his fangs. He makes his sclera white. He pulls his claws in and colors them pink. Makes his hair black. Makes his skin pale ivory, flush at the cheeks and rosy in the chest.

Healthy.

Human.

 _Normal_ , save for the shimmering layer of diamond dust that he can now see, indicating that it’s all an illusion. That none of it is real.

And then he lets it all fade, until he’s once more faced with his _new_ normal.

He still looks foreign. It doesn’t look real. Like he’s dressed up in a costume. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to it. Wonders if _Lance_ will ever get used to it.

Wonders… what Lance will think.

It’s a thought that keeps him up at night. While he’s lying in a bed that’s too big, too soft, and too strange. One that smells wrong. Surrounded by curtains and a high, vaulted ceiling. When sleeping is difficult because the air feels _different_. Feels alive and thick. When his fears and doubts and worries come pressing in on him from all sides, screaming at him in the dark.

He worries about Shiro. About what this means for his new human life. About whether or not he’ll have to throw it all away. If he escapes, will they have to move? What about Adam? Keith hates the thought of Shiro giving up everything he’s dared to let himself love…

And what about Pidge? Without them, what will she do? He hopes not anything stupid. He knows she’ll be alright in the end, but he hates to leave her.

What about Kosmo?

What about Hunk and Shay?

What about Matt?

What about _Lance?_

What will happen to them? Will he ever get to see him again? Even if he gets out, will he have to run far, far away and leave Lance behind because Allura needs him? Would Lance even want him now? He looks not only fey, but _winter_ fey. He looks like himself, but… he doesn’t look like the same boy Lance fell for.

The thought makes his insides squirm, butterflies and hornets wrecking havoc in his gut. Nerves flittering around beneath his skin. Anxious and nauseating. Skin heating up even as his heart feels cold.

It makes him feel stupid. Here he is, trapped in the faerie realm, an ironblood masquerading as a changeling in the winter court of all places, and he’s getting nervous and flustered and _panicky_ over whether or not Lance might still be attracted to him.

It’s… stupid.

But… he’d rather worry about this— rather dream about Lance and holding him and touching him and tasting him, feeling that devilish tongue and those roaming hands— than dwell on the danger of his situation.

He falls asleep lost in memories of being wrapped up in strong, tan arms, and hopes that he’ll wake to find this has all been a twisted, fear induced nightmare.

Unfortunately, he’s never that lucky.

* * *

He’s presented to the winter court with far less fanfare than he had anticipated.

As expected, fey from all across the winter court lands have arrived, crowding into the massive ballroom at the center of the palace. All to gawk at him. All to see the new winter knight. All to judge and gauge this new changeling in their midst.

There’s no doubt in his mind that this event— this gathering, feast, and gala— is for him. From the moment he steps into the ballroom, he can feel the entire court’s eyes on him.

However— thankfully, blissfully, gratefully— unlike what he expected, he’s never actually introduced. To anyone. His given name is never spoken. He’s never put directly in the spotlight. He’s never asked to speak. In fact, the royal family never once looks at him.

Lotor only looks at him once, and that’s when Acxa leads him to their meeting spot outside the ballroom. They gather with Lotor and his other “generals”. Because that, apparently, is what they’re known as. His bodyguard. Confidants. Most loyal subjects. The only ones he trusts.

Acxa, he knows. Ezor and Zethrid, he’s seen. The fourth is new. A female fey by the name of Narti, with no eyes, cat-like ears, and a lizard-like tail covered in dangerous looking spines.

Lotor gives him a once over, eyes critical and scrutinizing before he finally nods. “A little rustic, but it will do. He’s not expected to know fey fashion.”

Yeah, that’s another snag that he and Acxa came across. Glamour is a magic of illusion into reality. Of imagination become real. And Keith… doesn’t have a great imagination for clothes. In the end, Acxa had to help him, and he ended up modeling his outfit after what he remembers knights wearing in movies with a little flair of what he’s seen Acxa wear.

In the end, looking between them, he concludes that he looks like a purple and black fantasy knight with a little more body suit and formal flare. Which… is kind of exactly what he was going for.

The most uncomfortable part, however, is the fact that Acxa had insisted that he leave his shirt open enough to reveal a V of his chest. He didn’t have to show the entirety of his knight brand, but he had to show enough to prove it was there.

He wishes he could wear armor. Or hang a sword at his side. Or literally anything to make himself feel less exposed, defended, and armed. He’d give anything to look even a _little_ more intimidating, or like he belonged.

But he’s sorely out of place as he falls into step behind Lotor and his flanking generals, dressed in nothing more than glamour and a solid mask of irritable indifference.

The ballroom itself is _massive_. The room is built with seven sides, a black and white mosaic of a seven pointed star covering the floor, circled by a crescent moon. The ceiling rises high, and as Keith tilts his head to look, he counts seven floors total: the ground floor and six balconies circling above.

And the entire room is _flooded_ with fey.

They crowd the ballroom floor. They push and shove their way to the balcony railings, leaning over and holding tight as some of them hang over the edge. They’re in the _air_ , as those with wings use their advantage to get an aerial view above the crowd.

It’s an onslaught to his senses— which he’s found have become far more sensitive in his new half-fey existence.

There’s so many of them. So many things to see and take in. Fey of all colors. Of all shapes and sizes. Tall and short. Willowy thin and burly and curvy and large. Fey with proportions that are far from human standard. Fey with claws and teeth. With mouths too wide and fingers too long. Fey with strange eyes, many eyes, one eye. Fey with skin, and fur, and scales. Fey with animalistic features. Impossible things. Improbable things. Ugly things. Beautiful things.

And they all stare.

He feels their eyes like hot coals, raking across his flesh, eager to pick him apart.

He hears them. The whispers. High and low. Shrill voices. Gravelly voices. Growls and hisses and voices that crawl across his skin like ants.

And after a few steps, it’s already become too much. He stops trying to take it in. Stops trying to absorb it. He shuts down, retreating into himself, building up his walls at a rapid pace as the things he’s practiced his entire life come to him reflexively.

He turns his eyes straight ahead, focused on the back of Lotor’s head, fixated but unseeing. Chin held high. Expression indifferent and bored. Jaw set and lips pursed. He blocks everything out as he walks. Ignores them until they blur in his peripheral vision. Lets their chatter become white noise. He pretends he can’t see them— even as they surround him— like he’s done for his entire life.

The walk to the other end of the room feels like it takes forever. Time drags on, and every second feels like agony under the scrutiny of the court.

And then— Lotor’s generals step to the side, fanning out to position themselves around a giant, raised dais. Atop the dais stand three grand thrones, made entirely of crystal, carved to look like shards of ice. Colors of indigo, deep purple, and crystalline blue.

The center one is the largest, and it sits empty. To its right, in the second largest throne, sits whom Keith can only assume is the winter queen. A hunched feminine figure. Covered from head to toe in a cloak. Her face remains mostly shadowed, but he can see pointed features and violet skin. Long white hair falls from her hood, but unlike Lotor’s, hers looks ragged and frayed. Her hands rest on the throne’s arms, fingers long and hooked and wrinkled.

Keith tries not to look at her, but he can feel the chill of her piercing gaze.

Lotor climbs the steps, and Keith hesitates— but Acxa catches his eye, giving him a nod. She had told him where to stand.

So as Lotor throws himself— both with grace and lazy ease— into the smallest throne left of the king’s empty one, Keith climbs the steps after him. He moves to stand just off to the side. Atop the dais, but behind the thrones. Just past Lotor. Close enough to be summoned, but far enough away to be removed.

And that’s when Keith realizes why he’s not presented to the court the way he thought he would be.

He isn’t a person here. He’s a _possession_. A tool. The greatest weapon the winter royalty possesses. A fey bound to them, but not to the laws. A sword without a shackle.

This isn’t a gala to present _him_. It’s meant to show the court’s _power_. He stands off to the side as a pretty little figurine. A display. A threat. Proof of the royalty’s might. Proof that the summer court should fear them once again. Proof that the stalemate is in danger of shattering.

And what would a threat be without people to be threatened?

Just as Acxa told him there would be, off to the side, on a dais that is much smaller but distinct from the rest of the ballroom, at a table of formal chairs that look more like a cage than comfort, sit the envoy from the summer court.

Keith catches sight of them easily enough. As diverse as the winter fey are, the summer fey still stand out. Dressed in different colors and different fashion. Not to mention the wide birth the winter court gives them. Like a bubble of space one might give victims of the plague.

They’re quarantined there on that smaller dais in the corner. On display just as much as he is. Sectioned off. Invited to the festivities, but not expected to take part. Expected to watch. To fear. And to revel in the winter court’s display of power.

There are a good two dozen of them at least. One sits at the center, long blond hair, pointed ears, pink markings beneath her eyes. Her clothes are pastel and bright, far more than anything else in the room. She sits at the center of the group, in the largest chair they offered.

Three fey sit to either side of her, but one in particular draws Keith’s eye. Dark skin. A short bob of darker hair. Sharp blue eyes and an upturned nose. So similar to Lance, and yet so wholly different.

 _Veronica_. She’s _here_. She’s really _here_. Keith’s heart leaps in his chest, twisting up when their eyes meet— but her expression doesn’t change. Hard, steely eyes. Lips pursed. Indifferent. Intense. Formidable. The only shift he sees is the twitch at her jaw and the tightening of her hands on the arms of her chair.

_Be good, play nice, and pretend. To put that blood of yours to use and lie. To be patient for once in your life and not do anything stupid._

He swallows hard, giving her what he hopes is an imperceptible nod before letting his eyes roam over the rest of their envoy. Behind the seven seats is a collection of what he assumes to be lesser fey. Servants or body guards or something similar. Most of them wear cloaks of summer colors, faces half hidden and heads down. Hands clasped respectfully. Standing behind the seven chairs with a sense of silent respect.

It’s with an overwhelmingly conflicting wave of both disappointment and relief that he realizes that Lance isn’t among them.

There they are. The summer court envoy.

Here he is. The winter knight.

And with a lazy clap of Lotor’s hands, the night of celebration begins, winter fey cheering and howling and the ballroom coming alive in a writhing mass of primal revelry.

* * *

A fey court gala is a sight to behold, and yet once he gets past the beauty and grotesque visages of fey without glamour… it all becomes surprisingly boring.

A feast is brought out, layering the long tables that line the edges of the room. Fey move about, some eating delicately and some shoveling it into odd sized mouths to gnaw with too-large teeth. They hold goblets encrusted with crystals and carved from polished wood, decorated in silver and gold, drinking brightly colored liquid with a vigor that has it spilling from the corners of their lips.

They’re elegant. They’re a mess. They’re fey.

Music plays from somewhere, but Keith can’t locate the band. It echoes hauntingly throughout the vaulted ballroom, and he’s certain that the volume would be same on any of the seven floors. In escapable. All encompassing. Becoming one with the very air.

Fey mingle. They dance, both on the floor and in the air. They sing and they gossip. The crowd writhes and shifts, ever moving as they flit from one group to another. There might be a wide variety of fey here, but Keith notices they tend to stick to their own kind. Similar castes and breeds.

The high fey look inhumanely beautiful and stick up their noses at the low fey.

The low fey are strange and grotesque, monsters and boogey men that haunt human folk lore, and they sneer at the high fey.

The pixies only cling to other winged folk. The gnomes hide in the shadows and around corners, skittering between the legs of dancers.

The animalistic fey hold fast to one another, staying in packs and stalking through the crowd, eyeing the others warily.

It doesn’t take the court long to lose interest in him— especially with the royals ignoring his existence and igniting the festivities— and once they do, he allows himself to look around. To really take it all in. To observe these people he’s always been taught to fear…

And he _does_ fear. Don’t get him wrong. He knows very well that if any of them knew that he was really an ironblood, he would be slaughtered in an instant. He knows he’s in danger in this realm, but _especially_ in this court. He knows where he stands, and he won’t let his guard down.

Still… as he’s left to be a piece of scenery, no different than a prized figurine behind the thrones, Keith can’t help but notice in his observations that… it all seems shockingly and surprisingly, well… _human_.

They look different. The rules are different. There’s magic in the air, and their clothes are woven from light. Their food is too good to be true, and he’s certain their wine is, too. They look inhuman, some of them not even humanoid, and most would strike fear into anyone’s heart.

And yet… the way they interact. The way they celebrate. The way they stick to their own… it’s all so… _human_.

And that, at least, has allowed his heart to slow down and the tension in his shoulders to ease.

He keeps his gaze ever vigilant and ever moving. He catches more than a few looking at him. He knows they’re sneaking peeks occasionally and whispering about him throughout the crowd. But he doesn’t make eye contact. He keeps his eyes moving. Observant. Indifferent. Stone faced and bored.

Like he were the new knight to be feared, keeping a watch out rather than a half blood scared shitless and just trying to take it all in.

He tries to be subtle about it, but he also tries to look over at the summer court envoy as often as he thinks he can get away with. Maybe he can get away with it more, now that he’s thinking about it. After all, his job is essentially the court assassin, and he would be sent after the summer court specifically. So… maybe it wouldn’t be strange to be sizing them up?

It’s as good of an excuse as any. So he takes the liberty to stare a little more. More than anything, he tries to catch Veronica’s attention, but she pays him no mind. She outright ignores him, to the point where he can tell it’s intentional.

He does, however, catch the eye of one of the robed servant fey. Most of them keep their eyes on the winter fey around them, anyone who dares get too close to the safety of their dais. Some of the larger robed fey linger near the important, seated fey. Whispering together. Eating silently and politely sipping wine.

But there’s one in particular who Keith catches staring before automatically looking away— only to look back to find them _still staring_. They’re not shy about it. Most of their face is hidden by a hood, but Keith can catch the faint glimmer of eyes as their head is fixed in his direction.

He can’t read their expression, but it unnerves him all the same. He thinks fey stares will always do that. He hates being put under the microscope of their sharp gazes. Has gone his whole life trying to not be noticed.

And somehow having one stare at him so intently is worse than dealing with the whole room.

A shiver rolls down his spine, and he straightens with it, tensing as he lifts his chin and looks away.

He avoids the summer court dais for a while, despite his curiosity. He’s eyeing a few pixies dancing in the air when the crowd in front of the thrones parts, moving out of the way for the blond fey from the summer court envoy to step through. She walks with purpose, like she expects them to move for her, flanked by two others and backed by three more robed fey.

Lotor rises to great her, stepping down the dais to her level and bowing before her. They exchange pleasantries— oozing sweetness and tied up in a bow of excruciatingly sharp formality— before Lotor offers her his arm and leads her away.

 _Romelle_ , he had heard Lotor call her.

As they walk away, Keith glances at the thrones. All empty. The queen had left shortly after the festivities had began. Slipping silently away and never appearing again.

He looks back to the summer court dais… only to find Veronica gone. Just a few seated fey remain, along with a handful of the robed fey.

His brows furrow, but then he hears a sharp, short whistle. He turns sharply, finding Acxa standing at the bottom of the dais, off to the side where he’s positioned.

He glances around, uncertain, but at her short nod, he breaks away from his assigned spot and hurries down the steps to her.

“Look sharp,” she says quietly, voice clipped. “Follow me. Hold your mask.”

Despite his pounding heart, he focuses on his face, forcing himself to relax and feeling the muscles situate into place. Bored. Indifferent. A little bit of an irritated scowl. Locking away all his worry and fear and uncertainty.

“Good.” She gives a short nod before turning on her heels and walking away. He hesitates for only a moment before following, sticking to her wake as she steps through the crowd.

Fey move out of her way, not with the same sort of respect as for the royals, but with a certain level of begrudging fear and acceptance. She looks at none of them, eyes focused ahead. Pace clipped and quick, forcing Keith to lengthen his strides to keep up.

They leave the ballroom, stepping out into a wide corridor. Fey spill out here, mingling in smaller groups, all turning to stare as they pass. She leads him past tall arching windows, down a few steps. The fey get fewer and fewer, and he doesn’t speak until they’ve left the last of them behind.

“Where are we going?”

She doesn’t answer, but she leads him out a door and onto an open stone patio. There are benches here. Statues. The outside castle stones crawling with deep red ivy. She leads him to the half wall across the patio, down the steps into a sprawling garden.

“There.” She stops, pointing. Keith follows her gaze. Across the garden begins a hedge maze. One that stretches wide and far, crawling away from the castle proper. “Go into the maze.”

“Why?”

“Just _go_.”

He takes a few steps, urged on by her sharp exasperation and fueled by the trust he’s grown to feel in her. But he stops, turning to look over his shoulder. “Where do I go inside it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

His brows furrow. “How does it not—“

“You will be found. He’s watching. Just _go_. Be quick about it.”

It’s cryptic. Makes all sorts of warning bells go off. But… but she knows Veronica. She didn’t lie about that. She _can’t_. And Veronica knows what he means to Lance. He just… has to have faith.

So he takes a deep breath, steels his nerves, and rushes across the garden to dive headlong into the hedge maze.

It rises high above his head, nearly double his height. The paths wide enough for maybe four people to walk side by side. The leaves are a deep purple, and the bushes are dotted with flowers that look carved from crystal, but when he pauses to touch, finds their petals soft as silk.

He’s not sure what to do so he just… _runs_.

Sprints until he reaches a dead end, then picks a direction and _goes_. His feet hit the packed dirt with muted thumps. The air here is _cold_ , it bites at his lungs and freezes his lips, breath fogging with every exhale. His magic burns inside his chest, oozing warmth through his veins to keep him comfortable enough to keep going— keep going— _keep going_ —

For what, he doesn’t know. Adrenaline sings in his veins. Anticipation and uncertainty crawl like ants beneath his skin, prickling and stinging and keeping him on edge—

Then as he passes an open path, a hand darts out and grabs him, yanking him nearly off his feet and through an archway.

He stumbles, spinning to tear his arm out of that grip and forearm _burning_ as his dagger shoots from his blood to nestle in his palm. He turns, crouching, blade at the ready and eyes wild—

“Whoa, whoa! Keith, hey! It’s me!”

He doesn’t recognize the voice, but he does recognize the face. Only barely.

The summer court fey who had been staring at him.

They hastily throw their hood back. Revealing a sharp face with large emerald eyes and copper skin. Their hair is ear length and blonde. Nose wide.

They stand there, _grinning_ , hands held up in surrender and eyes crinkling at the edges with joy and relief—

Keith’s grip on his dagger tightens, and he backs away a step. “Who are you?” He snaps, ready to dart away if this isn’t the person Acxa sent him here to find, but they’re from the summer court so maybe—

The fey straightens, hands falling to their sides as their lip curls incredulously. “ _Who am I?_ What are you—“ They blink, face going blank as something dawns on them and they stagger back a step— “Oh! _Oh!_ I forgot. Hang on, let me just…”

They close their eyes, breathing in deep before letting out a long, slow exhale. And as they do, their body relaxes… and smoke starts to peel away from them.

It takes Keith a moment to realize he’s watching a glamour dissipate— a glamour he hadn’t even _noticed was there_. Pulling away from their skin and fading into the air like mist, blown away by the crisp breeze. Like dust shaken off their form, revealing different features and different colors and—

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith breathes, jaw going slack and air punched from his lungs. Lance grins, wide and beautiful, and Keith rushes forward, hand and arm stinging as his dagger is pulled back into his blood but none of that matters because _Lance_ —

Keith crashes into him, hands cupping his face and digging into his hair and pulling him forward until their lips are meeting— hungry, hard, tactless, and messy. But he doesn’t care because it’s _Lance_ , and Lance’s arms are wrapping around his waist to steady them as their balance rocks, absently finding their footing as they devour each other’s lips.

There’s nothing gentle about it. Nothing soft or fond. Just desperate passion and painful relief as he bites into the kiss, and Lance bites right back.

When he finally pulls away, they’re both breathing hard, hot breath mingling in the cold air. He shivers, but Lance is so warm. Their bodies flush, pressed tight and neither willing to move away. Pushing closer with every heavy breath. Keith’s finger move deeper into Lance’s hair, eyes still shut, foreheads pressed tight enough to bruise.

“What’re you doing here?” He whispers, voice ragged and hoarse. He turns his head, nose brushing against Keith’s. “How? Your glamour. I didn’t even notice.”

“I’m Allura’s favorite,” Lance says simply, and Keith can hear the smug smile playing across his lips. “She has powerful illusion magic. Most fey wouldn’t even be able to see through it. Not that they’d be looking too close at a lowly servant.”

Keith’s lips curl, breathless laughs slipping from him, puffs of fog between them. He pushes into Lance, turning his head to rub their foreheads until it hurts. “You’re insane.” His hands slide from Lance’s hair, cupping his jaw, thumbs caressing sharp cheekbones. “Absolutely insane.”

Lance chuckles, but his mirth is short lived. It fades, replaced by something more somber. Keith can feel the wrinkle of his brow. “What happened, Keith? How…?”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. Keith knows exactly what he means. He sighs. “Your phone. Lotor had it. He used it to lure me out to the woods by the faerie ring.”

“Lotor,” Lance hisses, and Keith can feel his jaw clench. He pulls back, just far enough to look at him— and _really_ get a look at him because… _wow_. “I couldn’t find it, and I thought I had lost it. I contacted Hunk and had him retrace my steps all over town in case it had fallen out of my pocket. I even had him walk through the woods, and he hates going near the ring. I don’t even know how or when Lotor got someone to get into my rooms, but— what?” Lance blinks, brows furrowing and lips pursing as his eyes flicker between Keith’s. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Like _that_ happens to be with his head tilted to the side, cupping Lance’s face in both hands, and what feels like a small, fond smile.

“Nothing just...” His thumbs caress his cheekbones again, tracing over bright blue V’s beneath his eyes, eyes roaming over a smattering of white freckles on his tan cheeks. His ears are long and pointed at the tip. His hair is the same as it always has been, but it’s snow white. “I’ve never seen you like this. Without your glamour.”

He’s always wondered what was beneath the patches of glamour that Lance has always refused to drop. Now he knows, and… it’s just _Lance_.

His eyes go wide— eyes that are so much more _vibrant_ in this realm and without his glamour, catching the light like crystals and churning like the ocean— realization dawning on him. His posture shifts, shoulders rising and gaze darting away. Voice quiet and hesitant as he asks, “Is it… weird?”

“No.” The answer surprises him. He always knew high fey were inhumanly alluring, but he never thought he’d ever get past the inhuman part enough to fall head over heels. And yet here he is. A light laugh making him breathless as he leans in, lips moving against Lance’s. “You’re beautiful.”

This kiss is unlike their first. Soft and sweet. Lingering and slow. Light as a caress.

But as Lance leans away— Keith chasing after him as his eyes open— his brows furrow, worry lines appearing as he looks him over.

It’s only then, when faced with Lance’s concern and uncertainty, does Keith remember what he looks like.

And that Lance has already spent hour staring at him.

“Keith,” he whispers, lifting a hand and laying it on Keith’s neck, thumb brushing the base of his ear. He tilts his head, and despite his concern, there’s a rage brewing in the sea of his eyes. “What did they do to you…?”

Keith sighs, eyes closing, hiding away his yellow sclera, wondering if it’s too late to put on the human glamour he’s been practicing. “Lotor… “ His voice is raspy, cracked and wavering. He clears his throat. “He pulled my fey blood to the surface. I don’t know how, but…”

He doesn’t know what to say or how to say it, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Lance understands all the same.

“This is you…” As Keith opens his eyes, he finds Lance staring, that storm in his gaze calming. His lips are parted. He looks… awed. Fascinated. Transfixed. And when he speaks, he sounds _marveled_. “This is _you_.”

Keith’s heart swells under that look, warmth tingling in his veins, burning where they touch. “Yeah…”

And then… something amazing happens. Something so incredibly and inherently _Lance_. His lips curl at the corners, that familiar, playful smirk returning. His eyes crinkle, eyebrow cocking. “And here I thought you couldn’t get any hotter.”

The laughter that bursts from him is sudden and startling, choking on the way up and causing his whole body to spasm. In the wake of it, he wraps his arms around Lance’s waist, burying his face in his neck and nuzzling into the warmth of his skin.

And when his laughter finally fades, he asks, mumbled against his collarbones, “So it’s not weird?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation, and it’s softened by fond amusement. And then, softly, with an endearing shyness as he runs his fingers through Keith’s hair— not so subtly running a fingertip along the point of his ear. “I… I like it.”

Keith hides his smile against Lance’s neck.

Lance pulls away all too soon, and he puts distance between them, hands on Keith’s shoulders. He watches as the soft openness fades, slipping away beneath his hardening expression. Sharp eyes. Lips pressed into a thin line. “But we’ll talk about it later. We need to go. The court thinks you’re a changeling. I don’t know how but—“

“Lotor.”

“What?”

“Lotor called me a changeling when he brought out all of… _this_.” He waves a hand around, gesturing to his face. “He’s been telling everyone that’s what I am.”

Lance’s frown deepens, the storm behind his eyes darkening. “I don’t trust this.” He grabs Keith’s wrist. “We need to go. I can get us out of the winter lands. We need to find a way to hide you. I don’t know where, but we’ll figure it out—“ He freezes, eyes going wide as he stares over Keith’s shoulder.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” A voice, silky smooth and rich as honey, oozing confidence and steeped in satisfaction.

A shiver runs down his spine, settling through his veins like fire. He spins, dagger shooting out of his palm, skin prickling and burning as his fingers wrap around the handle. He brandishes it, pulling Lance behind him.

Lotor stands in the hedge archway, one hand on his hip and the other hanging at his side, regarding them with sharp, amused eyes.

His smirk makes Keith’s stomach recoil.

“Down, little knight,” he says, one eyebrow raised. “Wouldn’t want anyone seeing you threatening royal blood, now would we?”

He walks past them, ignoring the way Keith shuffles with him, keeping himself between Lotor and Lance. He lowers his dagger, but keeps it in his hand, at the ready. His eyes never leave the prince as he settles on a bench, leaning back on his hands and stretching his long legs out, crossed at the ankles.

“I have a proposal… if you’re willing to listen.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Because you seem to be in a bit of a predicament.” His smile curls. A cat playing with a mouse. Something sparkles behind his eyes, a fervor that Keith can’t quite place. “Even if you escape here, my mother will never stop hunting you. And next time, she will kill you to pass your mantle onto someone else.”

“Not if she can’t find me.”

His eyes flash. He clicks his tongue, voice lowering. “She’ll always find you. Make no mistake. But… I believe I have a solution to all of our problems. Mine. Yours. Lance’s. And even those of your summer counterpart.”

Keith tenses, and Lance’s hand shifts in his grip, moving to weave their fingers together, squeezing tightly as he steps up beside him. Chin raised. Chillingly hollow mask slotting into place. Voice hard and formal as he says, “And what proposal do you have?”

Lotor’s grin reveals sharp fangs, and as he gestures to the stone bench across from him, Keith can’t help but feel like they’ve fallen right into his trap. “Come. Take a seat. Let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the faerie realm and welcome to the winter court :) what do you think Lotor wants?? 🤔
> 
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> I'm most active on twitter. More info in my pinned tweet <33 To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
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	9. Never Harm Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith doesn't trust Prince Lotor. He doesn't trust the winter court, and he doesn't want to be here. But... Lotor brings up a rather enticing deal. One that Keith doesn't think he can refuse. He just has to bide his time and hope he survives. 
> 
> Luckily, winter blood runs through his veins, and he has people on his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ready to see what Lotor is up to? And get more glimpses into the faerie realm? We're building up to the height of the second half of this story. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If you've been liking this story, please share it with your friends and on social media <33 Happy reading!

“So… do we have a deal?”

The crown prince of the winter court is all teeth. Perfect. Pristine. Straight and white. His canines are sharp, and Keith is fairly certain he has more teeth than is human. And he’s certain of this strictly because Lotor has not stopped smiling since they sat down to listen to his grand plan.

It’s unnerving. It makes his skin crawl. Combined with those sharp eyes that give nothing away. He knows Lotor isn’t lying— he’s incapable of it— and yet… it all seems too good to be true.

Still, Keith can’t seem to parse through his words to find any subtext of deceit. As intense as his eyes burn, they give away none of his thoughts. In fact, the only thing Keith can pick up with certainty is a fury. A rage. An excitement. Barely concealed anticipation and fervor.

And as much as he hates to admit it… he finds the offer… interesting.

“I do not like this,” Lance says, voice low and hushed. Surely Lotor can hear, but his words are meant for Keith.

Keith offer little more than a low grunt, something acknowledging but distant. Distracted. Thoughtful as his eyes never leave Lotor, sitting across from them, so relaxed and so sure.

They’re in one of the small dead-end spaces in the hedge maze outside the winter palace. A little corner locked away from the rest. A bubble of perceived privacy. With statues and flowers to decorate the haven. Two stone benches facing one another.

Lotor sits at one, prim and proper.

Lance and Keith sit on the other, one stiff and one brooding.

Keith sits at the edge of the bench, leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clenched and raised, fingers steepled, frown hidden behind them as he stares at the prince through narrowed eyes. His blood burns, writhing like a living thing in his veins, itching at his forearm and prickling beneath his palm, dagger practically begging to be released.

Still, he holds it in check.

He lets himself think.

Beside him, Lance sits stiffly, back straight and chin raised, glaring down the length of his nose at the fey across from them. His arms are crossed over his chest, hiding his clenched fists. He’s still. Too still. Had they been alone, Keith is sure he would see Lance fidgeting: a knee bouncing, fingers working restlessly, expression twisted sourly.

But as it stands, they’re not alone. They’re at a court. They’re meeting with the winter prince. And as such, Lance’s mask has slotted back into place. Cold and Confident. Coy and smug, even in his obvious displeasure. A perfect statue.

Too perfect.

It betrays his unease.

Or perhaps Keith simply knows him well enough to see it.

“Keith,” Lance breaths, breath barely above a whisper. More insistent this time. Sharper. As if he knows what Keith’s silence means. Perhaps he does. “I do not like this.”

“I know,” Keith mutters, lips against his interlaced fingers. He cracks his knuckles absently, trying to relieve the pent up itch of the dagger eager to press through his palm.

“This is not a good idea.”

“I know.”

Suddenly there’s a hand closing around his arm, and he’s pulled to his feet as Lance stands. “Excuse us. We would like a moment to discuss this in private.” Lance says, all sharp courtesy and a too-wide smile.

Lotor looks unfazed, waving them off. “Of course.”

Lance drags him out of the small little bubble of privacy. Through the decorated archway. Down the long hall of the hedge maze. Taking a corner. Only stopping when they seem out of ear shot.

He rounds on Keith. Arms crossed over his chest. Mask cracking as his brows furrow with worry, lips pressing into a frown in anger, eyes echoing fear. He steps into Keith’s space, nearly touching, hissing into the breath of space between them. “You’re thinking about it.”

It’s not a question. It doesn’t need to be.

Keith sighs, body deflating but retaining its tension. He mirror’s Lance’s stance: arms crossed over his chest. Both of them closed off and stubborn, but standing close enough that their arms press together. A comfort despite it all.

“Keith,” Lance is more urgent, leaning forward to press his forehead to Keith’s. He can feel the worry lines forming. “You _can’t_.”

“I can…” He says slowly, testing it out on his tongue. “It won’t be easy—“

“It’s too _dangerous_.”

“Right now, my whole _life_ is dangerous.”

He reaches forward, cradling Lance’s neck in his hands, thumbs brushing along his jaw. He leans back, brows pinched and lips pursed as he looks Lance over… his beautiful, breathtaking Lance. Perfect and pristine in this world of magic. He may be of the summer court, but he looks at home here, backdropped by the crystalline winterscape.

Lance’s hands come up to rest over his own, clinging tightly. “We can still run,” he whispers, hedging on desperate. Pleading. “We can still get you away from here.”

“Lance—“

“We’ll find a safe place for you to be. We’ll find a way to protect you—“

“ _Lance._ ”

Lance’s mouth snaps shut, frown deep as his eyes flicker between Keith’s.

“Even if we do get away, it won’t be over. It’ll _never_ be over as long as I have the knight’s mantle. And the only thing that can remove that is death… or a member of the royal family.”

Lance’s eyes narrow, sharp and fierce as his lip curls into a mimicry of a snarl. “I don’t trust him.”

“I don’t either, but he can’t lie.”

“Fey lie without the use of their words. You know that better than most. You grew up being warned about this— about making deal with them. Your father and Shiro—“

“I _know_ , but that was to _prevent_ something like this from happening. But the fact is that I’m _here_ now. I’m wrapped up in it. And if doing this means I’ll be free— that _Shiro_ will be freed— I… I want to try.”

“But…” Lance’s nails bite into Keith’s hands before his grip slides down to his wrists, holding on tight as he leans forward. He presses against Keith’s forehead, bruising as he twists his head, eyes closing. “It’s dangerous…”

Keith’s heart aches. His hands slide from Lance’s neck, wrapping around his shoulders to pull them flush. Lance’s arms find their way around his waist, holding tight as he buries his face in Keith’s neck. “Everything is dangerous,” he whispers, running fingers through Lance’s snow white hair.

Lance’s fingers curl into the back of Keith’s glamour crafted clothes. “You could… I could lose you.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly.

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can.”

“It’s a _lie_.”

Keith finds himself smirking, eyes distant as he stares at a curled crystal flower on the hedges that make up the walls around them. “Not if I believe it.”

Lance huffs a wet and weak laugh, breath hot against Keith’s neck. “Foolish. Stubborn. Hot-headed.”

Keith holds him tight, and despite how solid their glamoured clothes feel between them, he swears he can feel Lance’s heartbeat through the sheer material of light and magic. “I have to do this,” he whispers. “For myself and for Shiro.”

Lance sighs, deflating in Keith’s arms. “I know,” he says, defeated and begrudging. “I’m not happy about it.”

Keith presses his smile to the tip of Lance’s pointed ear, marveling in the newness of it. “I know.”

“You are _going_ to make it up to me.”

Keith chuckles, feeling Lance shiver. “I know.”

A moment of silence stretches, lingering and melancholy, comforting and warm in the crisp air of perpetual winter. They hold each other, savoring each ticking second, memorizing the feeling of being in each other’s arms. No matter how things go, Keith wants to be able to recall this moment in perfect detail. From the press of Lance’s chest against his with every breath, to the hands clinging to his back, to the shape of his nose pressed to his neck.

He wishes this moment could last forever, and judging from the sigh Lance heaves, he knows Lance does, too.

When Lance kisses him, one hand pressed to his cheek, it’s short and sweet, firm and lingering even as they pull apart.

When Lance steps away, he holds Keith at arms length, eyes roaming over him from head to toe, sharp and considering, as if… putting him to memory. This new image of him. This fey version of him that Lance had been so smitten by in the brief moment they had to revel in it.

“Well…”

Keith watches as Lance’s posture shifts. As he pulls himself a little taller and straighter, shoulders rolling back and head cocking to the side. As his lips curl at one corner, forming that familiar, lopsided smirk, full of confidence and amusement. As the lines around his face smooth out, shifting back into that of a porcelain mask, stiff plaster giving nothing away.

As his eyes harden, beautiful blue going cold and still as a frozen pond.

Voice controlled. Lilted. Musical and joyful, but hollow all the same. Brimming with a power and authority kept carefully in check.

“Let’s go make a deal with the devil.”

* * *

Letting Lance go is hard. Not going with him is harder. But following Lotor out of the maze and leaving him behind with that worried pinch to his brows and a frown on his lips… that’s the hardest.

He can still feel Lance’s warmth lingering on his skin, fading quickly and letting in the bitter sting of the frigid air. He purses his lips, as if trying to shield them from the creeping cold, trying to preserve the tingling warmth for as long as he can.

“Compose yourself, knight,” Lotor says as he leads Keith through the twisting maze. He doesn’t pay much attention, merely follows in the prince’s wake. That, after all, is something he’ll have to get used to in the days to come. “Though, keep the scowl.” He’s thoughtful, bordering on teasing, giving way to an undercut of sharp giddiness at a deal well struck. “It makes them wary, and we do want them wary.”

The only response he gets is a sharp exhale, fleeting on the tail end of a half formed scoff.

Still, he does as he’s told, if only because it’s sound advice. Locking away the ache in his chest and burying the trepidation he feels. The worry and dread like ants crawling beneath his skin. The fire of anticipation and rage seeping out from the core of his magic, pulsing in waves with his heart. The shadow of a beast Keith has never dared let into the light of day. One made up of indigent anger and fury at the things he’s had to endure in his lifetime.

It’s a beast inside him that he fears, but it’s a beast he knows he’ll have to embrace. And it knows. He feels the sickening delight in his blood. Feels the itch at his birthmark.

As they exit the maze, Acxa is waiting for them, leaning against the banister back up on the patio that overlooks the gardens.

If she’s surprised to see Lotor, she doesn’t show it. If she’s surprised to see him return, she keeps it carefully locked away.

But as Lotor passes, they exchange slight nods, and she falls into step beside Keith in the prince’s wake, hands clasped behind her back and chin held high. Expression impassive. Eyes almost bored.

Lotor steps back into the palace, easily sweeping through the halls and back to the festivities. But Keith pauses. Half turns. Glances over his shoulder to the ice dusted hedge maze that stretches out for miles.

He can feel his heart break, but he doesn’t let the echoes of it touch his face.

When he turns back around, Acxa is watching him. Lips pressed into a thin line. Eyes almost kind as she whispers, “It’ll all be worth it.” Quiet but fierce. Fueled with a rage Keith feels he knows but is surprised to find it in her.

He lets himself harden. Lets his internal chaos settle. Like ice on a pond. Like Lance’s eyes as he accepted Lotor’s deal. “I hope you’re right.”

* * *

As he settles into his bed that night, caged in by the rich walls and looming vaulted ceiling of his casual prison, he can still feel the weight of Lotor’s hand in his. The way his lips curled into too-wide grin with too many teeth as they struck the deal. As Keith sealed his fate, for better or for worse.

He has agreed to kill the winter queen, and in exchange, Lotor will dissolve the winter knight’s mantle. As long as Allura agrees to do the same.

That’s Lance’s part of the deal: to bring the deal to her in Lotor’s stead. He hopes she accepts, or his decision to stay will have been in vain.

* * *

Keith knows _exactly_ why Lotor had chose him. Had bided his time and slot all his game pieces so carefully into place. Why he had been so adamant about growing Keith’s cover as a changeling.

As an ironblood, he didn’t had to abide by the rules of court or the laws of the mantle he bore. He could kill a fey without being ordered to and without being slighted. He could shed royal blood. And as the knight, he was in a position to do so, situated pretty as the royals’ shiny new toy.

Still, while he had known that something of this magnitude would take time— and while he _new_ it wouldn’t be easy— he quickly realizes just how much he had underestimated the task.

The days start to slip by, bringing with them a current that sweeps him into a routine. He starts to adjust to the flow of it all. To being at the court and what his role entails. He starts to get used to being surrounded by prying, scheming eyes and the visages of the winter fey.

And all the while, his blood boils. He’s strung out and tense, nerves fraying, snapping and sizzling at the ends. Despite his efforts to keep himself still and composed, ticks start to worm their way through his body, seeking to discharge the energy that’s constantly built up and coiled tight. The tapping of fingers. Incessant pacing. Jerking at every little noise.

He waits.

And he waits.

And he _waits_.

Ready to go. _Eager_ to put this plan into motion, no matter how fearful he is and no matter how terrifying the prospect of defying the winter queen is. No matter how much it makes his stomach roll with unease at the thought of killing someone, fey or otherwise, while also fueling a fury in him that he struggles to keep leashed.

But all of that adrenaline sours in his veins, curdling with inactivity. It makes him more irritable. Frustrated. Fuels that scowl that he’s becoming known for.

He had expected to have to bide his time and wait for the perfect opportunity, but it quickly becomes clear that opportunities are going to be rare things.

He nearly never sees the queen, and what he does see of her are only ever glimpses down long halls, from a distance across the palace courtyards, or during official court gatherings.

She’s secretive. Hidden away. Mostly a mystery to those of the court. A shadow and a phantom that most fear and barely dare to whisper about.

Unlike Lotor, who spends his days amongst his people. Who is always there, with a confident smirk and a graceful hand. With his head held high, even as he lounges casually across his throne. Keith knows the people fear him, as is often the way of fey, but he can also see the respect they have for him. It’s a fear that comes from knowing him.

The fear of the queen is from the unknown and the daunting, ever looming threat of her power, hanging over the court like a ghostly axe made of ice, posed to fall.

When he asked Acxa where she goes, she merely replied with a vague shrug and a noncommittal sound. “I’ve heard she’s often with the king, though no one can be sure as no one is allowed near their living chambers. It’s more likely that she’s with her disciples. Scheming.”

And so the adrenaline in his veins peters out.

And so the beast of vengeance in his gut begrudgingly settles.

And so he grows more numb in the winter air, falling into patterns and routines, allowing himself to acclimate to this new and foreign land.

And so, against everything he’s every been taught to fear, Keith takes his place among the fey.

A tool.

A pawn.

A silent threat, shadowing behind Prince Lotor’s throne and echoing his footsteps and those of his generals in the long halls of the palace.

* * *

“How do you do it?” Keith asks. He sits back in his chair, slouched low, legs spread wide, leaning on an elbow on the arm rest.

Across the small table sits Acxa, posture relaxed but far more poised. She hums in question, distracted but alert as her eyes flit across the game board between them. It’s a game Keith had never heard of, but is quite popular amongst the fey. Like a far more needlessly complicated form of chess because the fey love their cunning and strategy.

Playing the game had started as a mental exercise, but now it feels more like simply a way to pass the time.

He doesn’t have free rein of the palace yet, though he’s not sure if that’s because Lotor is wary or if it’s the queen’s paranoia. Either way, they keep their shiny new toy locked away for most of the day. And despite how restless he feels, Keith is fine with this. The less the court sees him, the less likely they are to figure out his true heritage.

Acxa, at least, still visits him. They often spend hours together, sometimes training and sometimes merely passing the time. He finds he enjoys her company. She doesn’t chatter. She doesn’t scheme. She’s blunt and straight forward. He trusts her far more than any of the other fey here, and that is largely due to the fact that Veronica is her lover.

Which makes it all the more amusing that the entire court is whispering about the budding relationship between them. One of Lotor’s generals and the new knight.

Neither of them truly mind. It helps keep their true pining a secret.

“How do you do it?” He repeats, brows furrowing. He’s turned away from the game— has truthfully already conceded it to her. He rarely wins anyway. Instead, his eyes are locked on the single blue forget-me-not.

He holds the delicate yet surprisingly stiff stem between a finger and his thumb, twisting it slowly, watching the way the dim lighting catches on the crystalline petals.

It’s not the first one Acxa has brought him. She meets with Veronica far more frequently than Keith had thought, and nearly every time, Veronica passes Acxa a boon from Lance to give to him.

Just to give him hope.

Just to keep him going.

Just to tell him that Lance is thinking of him.

Just because Lance is Lance, and he wants to.

This is the fifth forget-me-not Keith has received since he’s been here. The other four are hidden beneath his pillow.

“It is about strategy.”

Keith huffs a short, sharp laugh. “Not that. I mean… Veronica. The distance. The two courts. How do you do it?”

Acxa looks up at him them, quirking a brow and narrowing her eyes. Keith meets her gaze side long. “It’s… not easy.”

Another soft scoff. A dry and withered, “Obviously.”

“But this is why I follow Lotor.” She looks back to the game board, sharp eyes flickering from piece to piece, lips pursed thin. Lines form around her eyes. “I’m not purely of the winter court,” she admits softly, words clipped and short. “My mother was a half breed, summer and winter. My father was of winter. I pass the court’s scrutiny, but only just. All of us— Lotor’s generals— have mixed blood. Just like him. We believe in the peace he’s trying to sow.”

She reaches out. Moves a couple pieces. Keith barely notices, eyes fixated on her face. On the small smile that resides there, hidden beneath the tension.

“And hopefully one day, Veronica and I can be together in earnest.”

“So that’s it, huh?” Keith’s eyes drop back to the flower. Preserved and perfect. Shiny with dew that doesn’t exist. Crafted from the magic of the man he loves. “You just hope.”

“No,” she says sharply. “I fight for what I want. But sometimes that fight means waiting and biding your time.”

Keith sinks lower in his seat, grumbling a frustrated, “I hate waiting.”

“I know.” She leans back in her seat, clasping her hands together, turning to gaze distantly out the window, over the winter mountains. “But they’re worth it in the end.” And then slowly, a smile creeps across her lips. “Veronica leaves me sunflowers. They’re much more difficult to hide, but it’s endearing.”

* * *

Time is a strange thing here in the fey realm. He had been warned of it. Had heard the stories of time passing at strange intervals. Had heard of the perpetual twilight and how that could warp his perception of time.

The fey realm exists in a pocket of its own. A world connected to his own, but wholly separate.

He has lines scratched into the stone walls of his room. Tallies for every sleep he’s had to mark the passing days. But every time he carves a shallow groove into the stone brick, he wonders if time is passing the same way in the human realm. If things will be just the same as he left. Or if more time is passing there. Or if it will be just the same.

He wonders how Pidge and Matt are doing.

Shiro has surely been called back to the summer court, so what of the tattoo shop?

What of Kosmo?

Hunk and Shay?

Lance…

Still, there’s nothing Keith can do but wait out his days and count them as they pass. Slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. Each one bleeding into the next as his adrenaline peters out and monotony creeps in. Dull and lifeless in a world that’s supposed to be full of life.

He feels like a statue. Face held impassive and carved into an eternal scowl, groove of that expression deepening every day. He feels removed from them all. Numb to the fear and intimidation he once felt. Now filled with restlessness, boredom, and _frustration_.

He waits.

He watches.

He observes.

He plays by their rules. Holds his own cards close to his chest. Biding his time until he can play his hand.

Keith has never thought of himself as a patient man, but here, he has to be.

So when the frustration becomes too much, when the restlessness is a jitteriness beneath his skin and a crawling in his bones, when training with Acxa doesn’t alleviate this relentless energy and the walls of his room feel like they’re pressing in on his lungs… he goes to the gardens.

If only to breathe.

If only to get a reprieve and solitude.

If only to remind himself that, despite it all, there’s beauty in this realm.

The realm his mother is from.

Here, in the gardens, carefully separated from prying eyes, seated and nestled at the base of a winter willow tree, whose leaves and branches drape with crystalline beads of ice that create a curtain that obscure him from view… here he sits. And here he breathes.

With one knee pulled up and elbow propped on it, fingers toying with the ear cuff he hasn’t removed since he arrived. Carefully feeling the smooth surface of the gemstone beneath his fingertips.

The magic of this realm sings in his veins. He hears the music faintly in the whispering wind. He feels it like a balm on his skin. Reenergizing in ways he never imagined possible. It coaxes open the bloom of his own magic, usually bundled so tight in his chest, fearful and hidden away.

But here…

Here he _blooms_.

It unfurls into a magnificent fire flower, with petals like blazes that wisp at the edges, heat radiating throughout his body and fighting off the winter chill, wrapping around his heart and making him feel stronger. Grounded. Steady.

He holds his other hand out, idly twisting his wrist and curling his fingers. Fire dances between them. Little snakes of it that sizzle to life down his arm, sparking and leaping until they catch, and then rolling in little streaks of flame down his wrist to play between his fingers.

They way he moves… the way his fire moves… it reminds him of water. Graceful and fluid. Endless and flowing.

And he knows it’s because Lance is the one who had taught him how to harness his magic.

It makes him smile as he watches his flames. A small, secretive thing. A warmth in his heart knowing that despite being so far, Lance is here with him now, in everything he does, in this core piece of him.

He wishes Lance were here, under the winter willow, watching him freely play with his magic. He thinks Lance would like it here. He thinks Lance would be proud of him for embracing this piece of himself. He knows the air is cold but Lance’s lips would be so warm—

A breeze rolls through the gardens, causing the willow’s bead like leaves and drooping branches to shift and clatter. The ice chimes as it knocks together, filling the air with dissonant music. It draws Keith’s attention. Pulling his eyes up to watch as the twilight colors dance off the shifting glass-like beads—

And then a shadow in the corner of his eye—

His hand is on the ground, weight leaning onto it as he uses it to pivot— pushing himself to his feet and twisting— ending in a low crouch with that hand braced on the ground, flames burning hot and high, spiraling around his arm like a snake.

But it’s his other arm that _burns_. Forearm stinging like needles beneath his skin as his blood bubbles to the surface, surging down his wrist to his palm, phasing dark purple smoke through his skin that becomes solid as his hand closes around it.

He holds his closed fist in front of him, wrapped around the hilt of his dagger, blade running parallel with his arm.

The figure coming through the trees has stilled, standing with one arm out, moving the curtain of beads aside for her passage. She’s tall. Built strong with wide shoulders, thick thighs, and arms that are just a hair too long. Her skin has that purple tinge he’s starting to associate with the winter court high fey. Marks come up her neck, over her jaw and cheeks to a point. Sclera gold. Hair purple fading to magenta. Ears pointed at the tip and lobe…

Suspicion creeps through his veins, prickly and needle sharp. It just barely conceals something brighter that he refuses to acknowledge. Something that makes his heart race.

His eyes narrow.

She meets his gaze unflinchingly, and then steps beneath the willow, letting the curtain shift closed behind her. She takes only a few steps, hands clasped behind her back. Formal. Stiff. Casually indifferent. Expression pulled tight and eyes hard.

There are two kinds of masks amongst the fey. Those that smile, and those that frown.

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Krolia,” she says simply. Voice even, and yet almost a whisper. Voice unshaken, and yet quivering at the fraying edges. She takes a breath, chin lifting higher, voice gaining strength as she declares, “Acxa is looking for you.”

Keith straightens slowly, but he doesn’t pull his magic back. “And she sent you?”

“I offered.”

Her eyes trail down Keith’s right arm, eyebrows raising at the fire, but her attention doesn’t stick. Which is strange, in and of itself. Most winter court fey are wary of his fire. No, instead her gaze fixates on his blade. But not with the same sort of trepidation of fascination that he’s used to. She looks at it with eyes that betray nothing, but an air that betrays familiarity.

Then her gaze is moving up his arm where his sleeves are pushed back, brows furrowing as she gazes at the ink that covers his birthmark. He lets her, though he’s not sure why. Perhaps it’s because he’s used to being a spectacle here, but that doesn’t explain why he’s holding his breath.

“Your tattoos,” she says slowly— curiously— awed? “They’re real.”

Ah. So that’s where her confusion lies. Fey in this realm are often born with markings. Those without them can give themselves elaborate designs with glamour as easily as they can give themselves clothes. Tattoos, however, real ink, that’s stuff of the mortal realm. A human thing. He’s seen plenty of fey be tattooed by Shiro, but they’ve been wild fey and domesticated fey.

“Yes.” He releases his grip on the dagger, letting it turn to smoke before being absorbed back into his palm. It stings as it settles beneath his skin, and he flexes his fingers to chase the sensation away. He releases his hold on his fire as well.

“They’re… magicked.”

His brows furrow. “How do you…?”

Her gaze flickers back to his, a small smile ghosting at the corner of her lips. “I am… familiar with blood magic. I know what to look for. Though I’ve never seen it utilized like this.” Her gaze betrays nothing, but it’s heavy and weighs on his heart, tugging in ways that leave him off balance and unable to catch his breath. “You are very resourceful.”

“I’ve had to be.”

“I’m sure your parents are proud.”

The air rushes from his lungs. He knows this game. The way she prods. The way she side steps. It’s an indirect game. One he’s learned with Shiro and Lance. He’s proud when his voice doesn’t waver. “My father is dead.”

_There_.

It’s only there for a moment. A brief fraction of a second. Something so minute and easily missed if he hadn’t been looking for it— waiting for it. It’s a flicker across her face. A purse of her lips. A pinch of her brow. A sorrow and surprise that twist across her eyes before the mask is back in place. Untouched and smooth.

But Keith had seen it.

“And your mother?”

“I’ve never known her.”

The woman— Krolia— nods. Once. Short. Then steps aside. Steps back. Pulls the willow leaves aside and gives a little bow. “Perhaps one day you will… but for now, Acxa is waiting.”

He steps past her without a word. She doesn’t make eye contact. She doesn’t follow him back to the palace. But he can feel her gaze lingering. Can feel the blood ringing in his ears. Can feel his heart hammering and his knees shake.

When he looks over his shoulder, she’s gone, and the willow’s leaves dance in the wind.

* * *

Keith’s role as knight gives him an intimidation factor he hadn’t been anticipating but is extremely grateful for all the same.

He had been afraid that despite Lotor’s declarations of him as a changeling, they fey would just _know_. That they’d see through his weak blood and his feeble glamour. He had always thought that fey could somehow _sniff_ him out. That they could just _feel_ the iron in his veins.

But… they can’t. They don’t seem to notice. They take the prince’s word at face value. Why wouldn’t they? Fey can’t lie, and Lotor had spoken a truth. Telling facts about changelings and letting the court have the implication that Keith is one of them.

As expected, he’s the subject of fascination amongst the court. However, they pleasantly give him a wide birth, and those who dare to skitter too close are the subject of Keith’s scowl. He wears it like a barbed mask, warning all those brave enough to approach to think twice.

It helps that he spends most of his time with Acxa. He’s found that the people are also wary and avoidant of Lotor’s chosen generals, and they have an intimidation act of their own.

So Keith lets them stare, as long as it’s from a distance. Lets them watch as he trains with Acxa, his blade out and his magic flaring up his arm, his flames clashing with Acxa’s ice. He lets them stare for once. Lets it breed their fear.

All the while keeping his skills sharp. Keeping his reflexes honed. He’s never trained with anyone other than Shiro, and he finds that, surprisingly, he holds his ground well. Acxa is faster than Shiro, but not nearly as strong and not nearly as crafty.

Keith is pleased to find that Shiro’s training to prepare him to fight off fey hasn’t been in vain, though he doubts Shiro ever anticipated this.

Still, he’s grateful. It means he might just be able to pull this off.

* * *

He had known this moment would come, but he had foolishly been hoping he would be freed of the winter court before it could. Hadn’t allowed it to permeate his thoughts. Out of sight, out of mind.

Because while he had come to terms with and steeled himself against the thought of ending the queen’s life, he hadn’t prepared himself to execute anyone else.

Which is, unfortunately, the whole purpose of his mantle.

To be a reaper of death for the royal family.

So when the queen says, “ _Knight_ ,” in that raspy, sharp tone coated in barbs of ice, he’s not prepared. He startles. Freezes. Stares at her back with wide eyes.

She doesn’t say anything, but Lotor turns his head just slightly from where he lounges on his throne, meeting Keith’s eyes and giving him the barest little frown, nodding towards his mother.

It shakes Keith out of his stupor, and he stumbles forward with uncertain steps. He hopes it comes across as slow and measured, and not at all like his knees are shaking and his pulse is ringing in his ears.

He hopes they can’t hear the rapid pound of his heart, beating in his throat as he walks past the thrones, to the front of the dais, and down the steps to where the queen looms above the captive fey.

He’s on his knees. An older fey, by the looks of him. Grizzled and aged. With lines around his mouth and eyes. Gray streaks in tufts of hair that almost look like ears. Purple skin. Eyes a solid gold. His hands are bound behind his back by thick vines as he bows at the queens feet.

Keith risks a glance at her face, but finds nothing other than narrowed eyes and a slight purse to her lips. Impassive as ever, even as she orders death to one of her people.

“Kill him,” she says simply. She doesn’t even bother looking at Keith. Simply waves a clawed hand at the fey and turns on her heel, stepping back up to her throne before sinking into it, hunched but regal all the same.

Keith watches her go, then turns to the fey on his knees. He holds his mask in place, hoping the court doesn’t see it waver. He feels his brows pinch and his lips curl into a frown. He hopes it looks like one of his infamous scowls.

He hopes they can’t sense his fear.

His unease.

The way his stomach twists and rolls, bile biting at the back of his tongue.

He hates fey. He always has. He’s been taught to fear and run and hide. He knows they’d kill him if they could, just for having iron in his blood.

And yet… as he stares down at the man— the fey— _Thace_ , Keith vaguely remembers. They had called him Thace. As he stares down at him, Keith feels no anger. No bloodlust. No drive for vengeance. No desire to spill his blood.

He feels nothing but cold sweat and churning nausea.

It doesn’t help that Keith has seen the mark on his forearm.

The mark of Marmora.

“Delay no further, knight.” The queen’s voice is sharp. Commanding. Yet infused with indifference and boredom that leaves it bland and monotoned.

Keith swallows. Nearly chokes at the bile that surges up his throat. He steps up to the man on his knees and holds out his hand, summoning the wisps of smoke from his palm. Gripping the handle as it solidifies into his familiar dagger.

He sees the fey’s eyes flicker to it. To his arm. To meet Keith’s gaze.

And— he _nods_. Barely perceivable, but definitely there. A small, slight incline of his head. A purse of his lips. Eyes falling shut as he leans his head back, giving Keith clear access to his throat—

Keith—

He can’t move.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t _do this_.

This man is fey, but… he’s done nothing wrong. Not as far as Keith can see. He’s charged with treason. For being a spy in the court. For being a Marmora rebel. And he’s—

He’s Keith’s blood. If only faintly.

And Keith— Keith can’t kill him. Not like this. Not in cold blood. Not while he’s bound and on his knees and the entire winter court is staring— gazes hungry and fixated— practically oozing a frenzied bloodlust that permeates the air and tastes sour on Keith’s tongue—

But he has to.

He _has_ to. Because he was ordered to. And even though he can disobey, a true knight couldn’t. He has to keep his cover safe. If he wants to fulfill his deal with Lotor. If he wants to be free— Shiro to be free— to see Lance again—

The court is silent. Collectively holding their breaths. Excitement bubbling through the air and tingling across Keith’s skin like a living thing.

He closes his eyes— raises his blade— steels himself and hopes that his stomach will be fine long enough for him to get somewhere private after this—

“ _Stop_.” Lotor’s voice is clear and firm as it cuts through the silence.

Keith freezes.

The court gasps.

His eyes snap open, arm lowering as he turns to the dais.

Lotor stands from his throne, hands clasped behind his back, chin raised high. The queen glares at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. He turns to her, offering a respectful bow as he says, “I humbly request that we postpone this man’s execution. I believe that he has more information to give us… and I believe I know of some ways to get it out of him. By your will, mother?”

The court is silent. Watching. Curious. The queen looks him over, but after a moment, she finally nods. “Do what you will, but I expect results.”

She stands, leaving the throne room without another word, the crowd parting for her as she passes, bowing like a wave.

Lotor snaps his fingers, and his generals step forward, taking Thace by the arms and leading him away.

Keith releases his dagger, and the sting of it settling back beneath his skin feels like relief.

He catches the prince’s eyes as he starts to turn away. Catches the slight nod. The acknowledgement.

Keith gives him one in return. It’s the closest thing to a thanks that he’ll give in the fey realm.

* * *

It’s a few days later, when Keith makes his way to the winter willow for some time alone, that he sees Krolia again.

He pauses as the beaded leaves sway back into place behind him, eyes narrowed as he takes her in. What she wears is form fitting. Armored in places. He wonders if it’s real armor, or if glamour can be hardened to do the same. The hood is pulled up, keeping most of her face in shadow as she leans against the tree, arms folded over her chest, watching him.

“What’re you doing here?” He approaches her slowly, warily, trying to temper the strange exhilaration that bubbles in his chest.

She waits until he’s closer. Regards him silently. Beneath the shadow of her hood, her face is… softer. Less guarded. Almost somber as her gaze takes him in. As if memorizing him. His breath his shallow under the inspection, a lump in his throat that chokes him.

“I’m leaving,” she says simply, and he feels the air rush from his lungs. She pushes off the tree, taking a step to his side, eyes moving to the palace that lays beyond the private bubble of the winter willow, beyond the gardens and up on the hill. “It’s not safe for me anymore. Our cover has been blown.”

“Your cover…?”

She turns to him, the ghost of a smile on her lips, mischief in her eyes. “I think you know what cover I speak of.”

“The winter court considers you traitors.” She says nothing. Merely gives a small nod. “If it’s so dangerous for you here, why be here at all?”

“We were asked by the summer princess to keep an eye on you.” Something shifts. The barest slump to her posture. “I cannot anymore. You’ll be on your own.” Her gaze is sharp. Steady. But there’s a pinch around her eyes, lines cutting deep as she frowns. “Stay sharp. Keep your guard up. Look for your opportunity. Take it and run.”

When she reaches out, Keith forces himself not to flinch. Keeps his feet grounded. Her hand is a heavy weight on his shoulder, and he’s surprised that he doesn’t… hate it. It’s… comforting. Almost. In a way he doesn’t really understand but… he does.

Because looking up— meeting her eyes— he _knows_.

And she knows.

They both know.

But now isn’t the time.

“We’ll be watching from afar. We’ll have your back.”

“Thank you,” Keith breathes, voice shaking.

Her smile is small, but it cracks through her mask, giving way to a hint of fond amusement. “You shouldn’t thank a fey.”

“I know. But… I think I can trust you.”

She merely smiles. Makes to move past him. But as she does, the hand on his shoulder tightens, pulls him close as she leans to his ear—

And whispers something that has his hair standing on end— shivers running across his skin— settling down into his marrow with a vibration that resonates in his core— has his magic quaking and swirling— heat in his veins— air rushing from his lungs as sparks crackle behind his eyes—

As she pulls away, he gapes at her. “What was that?”

When she smiles, he sees her fangs. So much like his own. “A mother always knows her child’s true name. It is the boon we give at birth. I was never able to give you yours. With this, you are truly your own. Be careful who you give it to.”

His hand is on hers, shaking but firm as he squeezes. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

He watches her go. Watches long after she’s disappeared and the willow leaves have stopped swaying.

He can still feel the sound of his true name resonating through him, a radiant bundle of energy— a fuel— a power—

He feels complete in a way that he’s never known.

He feels stronger.

He feels ready.

* * *

Opportunities, however, are hard to come by.

The queen is secretive. Hidden away. Always surrounded by people when she does show her face.

But he waits.

He watches.

He steels himself.

He’s ready.

* * *

The first time the queen approaches him, he’s training with Acxa in one of the many courtyards of the palace.

Her presence is silent, but she brings with her an icy wind that whips past them, forming ice in his veins. The rush of it is strong, causing him to stumble and Acxa to flinch. They both freeze, stilled like statues mid-combat. Their eyes meet. Wide. Startled. Brief panic. Momentary terror. Then steeled as they both straighten slowly, turning to face her.

The queen isn’t a tall figure. She must only reach Keith’s shoulder, and even then, she’s slumped. Head hanging low beneath her hood. Shoulders hunched. Yet despite her stature, her presence looms over them all.

Powerful.

Terrifying.

Her mere aura making Keith’s hair stand on end, his magic tensing and coiling, adrenaline fueling a reactionary fight or flight response. Yet he stays where he stands. Feet firmly rooted as both he and Acxa incline their heads in a slight bow. In unison. As if she were pulling at their strings.

Her servants flank her. The tall, slender fey that more than make up for her own height. Long robes. Curved beak-like masks with slitted, glowing eyes. Shadows within. Arms that are too long and claws that curl with an extra knuckle.

“Knight,” she says, voice raspy and sharp. She doesn’t speak loudly, but her voice carries all the same. Sliding across his skin like jagged ice. “I hope you haven’t tired yourself out.” There’s a mocking edge to it. A sneer somewhere beneath the shadows of her hood.

Keith’s throat feels dry, voice far too stiff. “No, your majesty.”

“Good. You will need your strength. Come.”

She turns on her heel and strides away. Her robes sliding and curling like shadows against the cobblestones. Her servants step aside for her, but their eyes are on Keith. Waiting.

“Go,” Acxa whispers. A hand on his shoulder. Squeezing gently. He glances at her. Meets her gaze. Sees all the things she doesn’t dare say. She nods. He returns it. And then her hand falls. “Best not keep the queen waiting.”

Without a word, he looks away, keeping his head held high and eyes focused straight ahead as he walks after the queen with quick, clipped steps. He feels too tense, but he also thinks that’s warranted, given the situation. Given the queen is calling on him. Given that her servants wait for him to pass before falling into step behind him. Watching shadows. Soulless eyes burning at the back of his neck.

The queen leads him through the palace. Through the endlessly twisting halls. The wide, sweeping corridors lined with elaborate stained glass and velvet curtains, lit up with dancing globes of light that chase each other like fireflies.

She leads him down the large, curved staircase that leads down into the grand foyer. Down the thick, dark purple carpet that guides the way to the door. Past the statues carved of crystalline ice that will never melt, depicting creatures of twisted beauty and eerie grace.

She leads him through the grand doors to the winter palace, nearly two stories tall and carved from dark wood. Both of them elaborate in design and leafed in silver and gold.

She leads him down the long, irregular steps, carved out of the earth itself and lined with stones that are etched with frost.

Down, down, down the path that twists around the hill that the palace sits atop.

Through fields of dried grass that crackles like haunted laughter in the wind.

Past the leafless trees dipped in layers of smooth ice that glisten in the low light, branches twisted and frozen, reaching out with claw-like silhouettes.

Deep into the valley proper and through the winter wood, leaving the castle far behind where it looms tall and proud atop the central hill.

She leads him through the forest. Through fields where snow lays untouched and soft. It crunches beneath his boots, but not a sound comes from the queen. Nor from her servants. Their robes leave trails in the untouched snow, but not a footprint to be seen.

More of her servants join them as they walk. Peeling from the shadows and falling into step around them.

Then the path starts to curve upwards. The trees start to fall away, and they emerge from the wood, following the path up another short hill.

Atop this short hill sits a single, crumbled tower. It’s not very big. Perhaps only a single room wide and a single story tall. More of an elaborate circular hut than anything. With large stones that have crumbled away and lay forgotten in the snow at the tower’s base. Around the stone crawls deep purple vines sprouting long petaled red flowers.

Windows encircle the stone in even measures, open to the wind. The entrance is a large archway without a door.

As they approach, Keith can feel it in the air. The static like pulse of energy. Of magic. Crackling across his skin and making his heart race reflexively. Within the tower, he sees nothing.

Nothing but the vague, shifting translucent shimmer. As if the space itself were alive.

The queen pauses at the end of the path, before the large archway. She doesn’t turn to him as she speaks. “You grew up a changeling, did you not?”

“Yes.” He hopes his voice is steady. The lie tastes like ash on his tongue.

“Do you know much of our realm?”

“No.” That, at least, he can say truthfully.

“What do you think of our lands? The winter lands.”

“It’s… very beautiful here,” he says, allowing himself to show some earnest awe. Just a sliver. Just enough that she nods in satisfaction.

“My servants have told me that you were unconscious when you came through the faerie ring, correct?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Then I suggest you prepare yourself. Come.” She steps up to the small tower, through the doorway and into the depths of the shimmering veil. He pauses, watching as her form blurs and shifts, folded up in the translucent cloth the air has become, until she fades completely.

Next to him, her servants shift. He can feel their eyes on him, but he refuses to look. Instead he takes a breath through his nose, lifts his chin, and strides forward. Nervousness crawls beneath his skin, but he doesn’t allow himself any more hesitation.

He steps into the tower, feeling the shift as he moves through the archway. The air changes. Becomes more dense. Despite the way the shimmering veil moves, there’s no wind. It’s still. Thick. Pressing in on Keith from all sides. Like wading into the ocean. Pressure building with every step. Air becoming thinner even as it feels thicker. Until he’s gasping for shallow breaths—

Dots crawl at the edges of his vision—

The air in front of him shimmers and shines, shifting and swirling. A living thing. Solid, even if he can’t touch it. His hair lifts with it, floats lazily around him. Gravity seems to lift—

He floats—

He drifts—

His body is alight— not with cold and not with heat, not with pain and not with pleasure, but _alight_ all the same— every single nerve ending ignited and firing but his mind being unable to figure out what the sensation is—

He blinks, but everything is bright— blinding— white—

He feels the tug— the strange tilt— the push and pull as everything shifts—

And then he opens his eyes, and new surrounding start to fade into focus.

A new archway, made of stone that’s much darker. He faces it. He walks towards it. In fact, he feels like he never stopped walking throughout the whole process. Everything merely shifted between one step and the next. And then he’s walking out—

Onto a new hill. One covered in long, thick green grass. A dark and thriving forest spreading out at the base of the hill, rising tall all around them. The air here is warmer and far more humid. When he turns, he sees a similar, but different tower.

This one has no roof, and is crumbled into near ruin. Only the bare bones of an arch way and walls remain. The dark, cracked stone can barely be seen beneath the thick moss that crawls and devours it, until the tower appears to be a growth of the hill itself.

And beyond the archway, he sees the shimmering air of the faerie ring.

As the queens servants begin to pass through, he turns away, finding her a few feet down the hill, watching him from beneath her hood, glowing faintly golden, sunken into sharp and twisted features.

“Do you know where we are, knight?” Despite the new temperature, her raspy voice brings with it the familiar chill of winter.

Despite having gone through the faerie ring, despite knowing they’re no longer in the winter lands, he knows instantly that they’re not in the mortal realm either. Magic is still thick in the air. Keith swallows, giving a quick shake of his head. “No, your majesty.”

“These are part of the Wild Lands. The neutral territories that lie between the courts.” She turns, gesturing to the forest with a clawed hand before it falls limply to her side. As she starts down the path, Keith automatically steps after her. Her servants fall into place around them. “Do you know why I’ve brought you here, knight?”

They step beneath the canopy of the forest, into the shadows. Fog is thick here. White and ghostly as it clings to the ground, swirling and dancing between the trees, obscuring everything. The twilight sky can be seen between trunks, fiery hues creating burning silhouettes.

Moss hangs from the drooping tree branches, ghostly and gray. Flowers dot the forest floor, but their petals close and shiver, pulling away from them as they pass. Motes of light blink and bob, chiming like distant bells, sweet and enticing. He’s unsure if they’re fireflies, small fey, or will-o-the-wisp.

“No, your majesty,” he says, reaching out to push aside a draping of moss.

As she walks, the fog seems to curl away from her, and he notices fractals of frost forming on the grass where she steps. “You’re here to do your duty.” A shiver runs down his spine. A lump forming in his throat, catching the sharp intake of breath. “My son seems to think that you’re worth keeping as a knight. I have my doubts, but Sendak was a magnificent knight, and you somehow managed to fell him. So perhaps you shall also show potential. Here, you will prove to me your worth.”

Keith holds his voice steady. Steels himself the best he knows how. Ignores the burning in his veins and the tight knot in his chest. A new sort of nervousness crawls beneath his skin— anticipation— apprehension— hope— dread— eagerness— terror—

Here, they are so far from the winter court. Here, they’re far from the prying eyes of the winter fey.

It’s only him, her, and her servants.

“What would you have me do, your majesty?” Monotoned. Dark. Indifferent.

“You shall see.”

As they walk, the path gets more twisted, splitting and forking. The forest gets thicker, branches reaching out to snag at him and his hair, catching on his glamoured clothes.

And then— the trees stop.

Before them rises a hill, barren of trees but littered with flowers that glow faintly. Beyond the hill, the land slopes down into a small valley, a pond lying at the center, barely visible through the shadows and fog.

Atop the hill, overlooking the pond, rising out of the lingering fog, is a circle of large standing stones. Not unlike Stonehenge, he thinks, but on a far smaller scale.

The queen stops before the tree line, still hidden in the shadows, gaze turned toward the circle of stones.

“There,” she says, lifting a hand to point a clawed, crooked finger. “Your target waits for you there.”

“My… target?”

Her hand drops to her side, sleeves falling to cover most of her hands once more. “The Marmora traitor that my son saved from execution. After some… persuasion. He gave us some interesting information. An infiltration of spies amongst my court. Defected winter fey who now aid the summer court. Despicable, traitorous vermin,” she hisses between sharp teeth, lips curling into a sneer. “They’d see my family fall. I shall see them dead.”

She lifts a clawed hand, thrusting an arm out. The reaction is instant. Her servants move, merging into the forest like shadows, fanning out in both directions.

But two remain. Flanking behind Keith. Looming over him. Watchful and ominous.

“We used our prisoner to send a message. Requesting a summer court representative to meet him here.”

She starts up the hill, gesturing for Keith to follow. Her ghastly servants stay behind as they stride out into the open. The grass frosts and withers beneath the queen’s feet. The fog parting for her and swirling back into a thick blanket in her wake, coiling around Keith’s legs.

His heart is in his throat.

Birthmark burning and blood boiling.

His palm prickles with needles, itching to release his dagger.

Still, he holds… walks… waits…

“If the information I have gathered is correct, and it always is, then the man who will come is one of great interest. One who’s presence has been a stain in my plans for many years. One who does not deserve his place at his princess’s side. A place better suited for my son.”

His body feels cold even as his blood runs hot.

His ears are ringing, and his head feels dizzy.

His hands shake— not from fear, but from _anger_. From a rage that unfurls in his chest. Old and patient. Unleashed in a beautiful bloom.

His steps remain steady.

“This man is your target,” the queen’s voice pierces his mask, fracturing his steady calm. Still, she doesn’t turn to notice the twitch of his brow or the curl of his lip. Nor does she see the burning fury behind his eyes. “His presence has been a thorn in my side for far too long. You will kill him. You will do so quickly and efficiently. These are my orders, and by your mantle, you will carry them out, regardless of our laws. Despite your… previous engagements, your loyalties now belong to me. Your blood is tied to my blood. Your will is that of the court. Do you understand?”

“So have you commanded,” he says, voice low and clipped. His words taste like acid on his tongue, burning down his throat to settle in his gut, writhing and coiled. “So shall it be.”

The climb up the hill takes an eternity, each step stretching seconds beyond measure. Each footfall vibrating through him, rooting him to the spot for eons before that foot peels away from the earth.

And yet, before he knows it, he’s blinking up at the massive stones. They tower over him, blocking much of the view inside the circle. The fog is high here, crawling up his waist and swirling with every swing of his arms. Thick enough that his own feet are obscured.

They walk up behind a stone, and the queen signals for him to remain behind cover as she steps around it— a twist of her wrist and a curl of her finger urging him to circle around behind—

And then she steps out of sight and through the stones.

“I see our information was correct,” he hears her say, voice chilling and rough, but lifting at the edges in cruel amusement.

Keith turns, following instruction, intent on circling around when he freezes at the familiar voice—

“What are you doing here?” Beautiful, even in indignance. High pitched in surprise. Sturdy, despite the underlying fear.

_Lance_.

He had been expecting it, and yet his voice hits Keith hard all the same. A punch to the chest that has the air rushing from his lungs. Has him freezing in his tracks, bent over as the blow rolls through him, one hand on the stone to steady himself.

“I’m here to see you, young one.”

Keith shivers. He hates the delight in her voice. The cruelty that oozes between her teeth. But it helps him come back to himself. Helps him find his balance and breath once more. Helps him _move_.

Because he has a job to do.

He crouches low, slinking along the outside of the stones. Fingertips trailing along their rough surfaces. Footsteps silent in the soft grass. The wind kicks up, blowing cold as the two fey face off within the circle. The fog swirls around him, playful and comforting. He hides in it. Darts from shadow to shadow.

Between stones, he sees the two figures. The short, hunched form of the queen. The tall and proud silhouette of Lance, obscured by fog.

The sight of him fills Keith with excitement and dread in equal measure.

He’s glad he’s here.

He wishes he had stayed away.

“Where is Thace?”

Once behind him, Keith presses his back to a large stone, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. Steadying himself. He finally gives in to the itch— releases his dagger and embraces the sharp pain as the smoke oozes from his palm. His fingers close around it, making it solid, and he pulls his hand to his chest. Dagger ready. Feeling his heartbeat against his ribs.

“He is no more, but rest assured, he was extremely valuable in his last moments.” A chuckle, soft and cracking, like the ominous sound of ice splintering across a lake. “He managed to get you to come. Alone. You have always been a fool. A fool to think you could survive reaching so far above your station.”

When Keith opens his eyes, he sees the shadows at the base of the hill moving. The ghost like forms of the queen’s servants. Floating through the fog. Slitted eyes glowing in the dim light. Swarming down below. Circling like vultures. Waiting for their queen’s call.

“Careful, your majesty.” He hears the cockiness in Lance’s voice. The false bravado that _almost_ covers the faint quiver that Keith only notices because he knows where to find it. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were insulting me. It would be uncouth for royalty to insult someone so openly.”

Keith takes a deep breath, digs his toes into the soft earth, and pushes— slipping around the large stone— darting into the circle on light, silent feet— crouched low in the fog—

Lance isn’t far, having backed away from the queen. No more than ten feet away. Keith closes the distance quickly. Slides up right behind him— straightening and pressing in close— until they’re only a scant few inches away— his breath on the back of Lance’s neck and a hand pressed to his back to soothe him and keep him from jumping as his arm wraps around to press the edge of his dagger against his throat—

But Lance doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t jump. Freezes with only a soft hitch of his breath when he feels Keith’s hand at his back.

Keith can’t see his face, but he can see the queen over his shoulder, standing across the circle, head lifted high enough for him to see the way her golden eyes crinkle as her lips split into a wicked grin with far too many teeth that are far too sharp.

“I do not think I will have to worry about slighting you. After all, soon you will be no more, and my son can take his rightful place in the summer court.”

“Keith…” Lance breathes. There’s a slight tilt to his head, like he’s so tempted to turn, to see him, but he stops himself.

“I’m here…” Keith whispers, lips barely moving, a mumble too soft to carry.

“Allura will never welcome Lotor to her side if you do this.”

“Perhaps not immediately, but in time, she will. After my son comforts her in her grief. After he explains to her how you used your position at her side for power, but had a heart and loyalties that lied elsewhere. For a changeling, nonetheless. For the very knight who will take your life.”

Keith can feel Lance tremble. It’s only slight. Only the barest shiver. But he feels it. He runs his hand in small circles on Lance’s back, hidden from the queen’s sight. Feels Lance lean into it, making it a show of pulling away from the dagger.

“In time, the princess will lose faith in your memory. She will cease to mourn you. And you will be forgotten. A footnote in the empire my son will build.” The queen’s gloating continues, and the wind in the stone circle starts to pick up, fueled by her cruel glee. A breeze that moves around them, swirling the fog around the stones, blowing it away from the center where they stand. Her long, ragged hair shifts in the breeze. Her cloak being tugged by it. The air is frigid here amongst the stone circle, but Lance is warm beneath his touch. “And I will have the immense pleasure of watching you die by the hands of the man you were foolish enough to think you could love.”

Keith takes that as his cue that her speech is over.

His hand drops from Lance’s back, but he keeps the knife at his throat as he steps around him. Slowly circling. On measured steps. Face locked in an indifferent mask. He hopes it’s dramatic enough for the queen to spare him this moment. He hopes she relishes it enough for him to be slow about it.

He steps in front of Lance, still so close, dagger held so close to his throat. He blocks Lance from view, standing directly between him and the queen.

And then their eyes meet.

Lance’s face is stone. Carved in perfect, sweeping angles. Polished to perfection. Eyes glistening like sapphires and reflecting the fire of the twilight sky.

But as he looks at Keith— as his face is hidden from view— Keith watches those eyes melt into a tremulous sea.

Watches his posture wane slightly and watches his lips tug at the corners.

He’s not sure what to say— what to do— so he says the only thing he can think. “This was a trap.”

There’s a pause, and then a soft, sharp exhale. The ghost of a smile playing across Lance’s lips and his eyes crinkling at the corners. “No shit. But I knew that coming into this.”

Keith blinks, brows furrowing. “Then why…?”

Lance’s eyes flicker between Keith’s, lips tugging into a smirk. Cocky as always. Even with a knife at his throat. “We knew from the moment we were contacted by Thace that it was a trap. We had already been warned that he had been captured. But… it was a good opportunity to lure her out of her court.”

“With _you_ as bait,” Keith hisses.

Lance’s eyes narrow, amusement dancing in their blue depths. Crashing waves and a swirling storm. “The perfect bait. We figured she would have you kill me… and we had a feeling she would want to watch.”

“You’re insane…” Keith breathes, resisting the urge to shake his head. But judging from Lance’s soft chuckle, the sentiment gets across. “And you call me hot headed and reckless.”

They’ve been keeping their voices down. Low murmurs that even the wind can’t carry. Words kept private between them. A lover’s last moment.

Still, the queen’s patience only lasts so long.

“This is touching, but the time has come, knight,” she says. “Say your goodbyes and end his life. As your queen, I command it.”

“What do we do…?” Keith whispers, eyes searching Lance’s face, mind whirling, trying to scrap together some sort of plan in the space between heartbeats. “Her servants are down below. As soon as I turn on her, they’ll rush to defend her. It’ll be enough of a slight for them to attack me.”

Lance shifts. One hand snaking up to lay on Keith’s chest. Right over his brand. Right over his heart. “You’re not alone,” he whispers, expression hardening like ice. “The Marmora tribe is here. They’ll keep her servants distracted.”

“I won’t do anything until you’re out of here safe.”

“She can’t hurt me. I’ve done nothing, and she can’t break our laws.”

“I don’t care.”

Lance pauses, fingers curling into Keith’s shirt. He leans in close, and Keith instinctively twists the knife until he’s pressing into the flat of it rather than the edge. Lance’s breath is hot against his lips. Smirk coy and mischievous as he says, “Kosmo is here.”

And then Lance’s hand is at the back of his head, fingers combing through his hair before yanking him forward, crashing their lips together. The kiss is brutal. It’s rough. Their teeth clack together, and their lips bruise. But neither of them pull away. They sink into each other. Taking— _stealing_ — this moment. Claiming it as their own. With Lance’s tongue in his mouth and his dagger to Lance’s throat, they give nothing but take, take, _take_ —

The man he loves pressed up against him, body rolling up flush and head twisted to get a deep angle. The wind whips up around them, a powerful gale that threatens to tear them apart and yet cannot truly touch them. Adrenaline surges in his veins, hot and heavy, magic thrumming through his body in time with his pulse, vibrating and seeping out through his pores, sparks crackling along his skin— eager to ignite—

He hears the hiss of displeasure, but he knows the queen doesn’t think much of it. Sees this moment as a goodbye rather than what it is— a _good luck_.

Then they’re breaking apart, gasping in lungfuls of frigid air that bites at the back of his throat.

Lance releases him and stumbles back a step. Two. Keith lets him go. Watches Lance find his balance. Watches him pull himself up to his full height, chin high, smirk cocky, magic pulsing dimly behind his eyes. His clothes whip around him. His hair flutters in the wind. And yet the chill cannot touch him. Snow has started to form in the gale the queen has summoned, but it melts as it touches Lance’s flesh.

He’s beautiful.

He’s wild.

He gives Keith a slight nod, lifting his fingers to his lips and letting loose a sharp whistle.

A crackle of energy. The ripping of air. A poof of smoke appears a second later, dark and twisted and swept away, peeling off the familiar form of a large wolf. He leans against Lance, and Lance’s hands sink into his fur, but he looks to Keith, regarding him with eyes that glow gold. Blue shimmers across his fur.

“Get him out of here, Kosmo,” Keith whispers.

Lance smirks. “Give her hell.”

And then they’re gone in another crackle of static and explosion of smoke. They’re gone, and Keith is alone in the eye of the storm.

They’re gone.

And Keith turns to face the winter queen.

“Where has he gone?” She cries, voice loud— enraged— cracked and splintering as she howls above the wind— “Go after him! _Kill him_ —“

“No.” He says it loud enough for his voice to carry. Firm. Solid. Grounded despite the storm swirling— whipping hail and snow and fog around the stone circle, blocking out the hill and forest beyond— sealing them away— just him and her.

“What?” She takes a step forward. Two. Teeth clenched and gold mist wisping away from her eyes like smoke. “What did you say to me?”

“No.” Slowly, methodically, like he’s done a thousand times before, he lowers himself into a crouch. Knees bent. Both arms up. Dagger in his hand and at the ready. With nothing more than a thought, he lets his magic ignite. Lets flames come to life across his skin, dancing and sizzling and _burning for blood_ — “I will not.”

“You— How _dare_ you— you can’t—“ She sputters. She hisses. She spits. She gnashes her teeth. “You are the _winter knight_ , and you will _obey me_.”

“I am the winter knight,” he says slowly. Eyes narrowed against the wind. Laser focused as a strange calm settles over him. Despite the storm that rages with her temper. The shadows that have started to form outside of the wall of her wind. Despite the fear and terror he knows he should feel. It’s all pressed away. All dampened. All subdued by a strange and consuming calm. “But I will not obey you.”

“What…” Her eyes narrow. Her lips sneer. “What _are you?_ ”

At that, he smirks. Feels his calm snap— unleashing an inferno of rage that he’s let simmer for too long— consuming— burning through him with a heat and a roar— a beast he’s kept locked away his entire life—

His feet dig into the earth, cracking against frost that’s formed on the grass.

His dagger goes to his side as he charges forward— swinging it wide— up— closing the distance and bring it down—

She throws up her hands, and a shimmering barrier crackles to life before her—

Keith’s dagger catches on it. Digs deep but he’s stopped in his tracks. He stares at her, eyes wild, flames licking up his arms, blood _burning_ as he presses his dagger into her shield. He watches the cracks splinter along it like ice.

“I am _iron born_ ,” he hisses, feral and deep.

He relishes her gasp. Watches the shock flicker across her face. Watches it turn to rage and frustration—

As she throws out her hands, shattering her shield, Keith is already on the move. He throws himself back, tearing his dagger from her barrier and putting distance between them. His arms go up to shield his face, but the shards of ice melt before they can touch him, droplets sizzling against his skin.

Her scream is feral— furious— arms thrown out and dark lightning striking out from the gathering storm, hitting her and crackling along her arm to the clawed fingers she points at Keith—

He dives out of the way as it strikes the ground where he has stood, sending dirt and grass flying, splintering stone. She barely gives him time before she’s shooting off another bolt— and another— a flurry of ice and lightning.

The wind whips hard and fast, and his hair stings against his cheeks. He has to keep moving. Can’t stay still for a moment. But he’s used to this. He’s _trained_ for this. Shiro has always pushed and pushed and _pushed_ him. So when his lungs are burning and his limbs ache— when the queen manages to strike him and pain blooms searing and cold enough to burn— he keeps going.

Because he has to. Because he knows how. Because if he stops, he’ll die, and for once, he has so much to live for.

Because he’s not just fighting for himself, but for those he loves.

Outside the swirling wall of wind and fog, he can see figures moving. The tall, shadow-like forms of the queen’s servants. The lithe and strong forms of fey in bodysuits and armor. They clash. They duel. But Keith can only catch glimpses. His focus is on the queen.

And hers is on him.

Within the eye of a blizzard.

But he can feel his strength waning. He can feel his body growing heavy and sluggish. Slowly, but surely. He barely has time to gather his balance before he’s dodging again. She brings ice up from the earth, jagged spikes that aim to skewer him from below. She calls lightning down upon him.

Always moving— always running— fire burning hot enough to keep the ice and sleet at bay, to keep him going, but it’s little more than a shield. He’s never learned how to use it more than that.

And he can’t get close enough to use his weapon. Whenever he manages it, even for a brief moment, she throws up a barrier, catching his blade and forcing him to retreat before she can strike.

She always knows where he is. Always knows where to block. Always knows—

Which is why he needs the element of surprise.

He throws himself back as black lightning cracks against the earth. He rolls, skids, and shifts back to his feet, crouched low. Putting his free hand to his lips, he whistles. Once. Loud. Sharp. Clipped.

A new crackle. Like static. A plume of dark blue smoke bursting to life at his side— and a large wolf’s body. Warm. Soft. Leaning into him. Sturdy and solid. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the electric blue markings shimmering across Kosmo’s fur, bleeding through his blood magic.

“Hey, boy.” Keith drapes his free arm around Kosmo’s back, fingers digging into his fur. He can feel Kosmo’s inherent magic reach out to him. The remnants of his own tingling against his fingertips. “I was hoping you hadn’t gone far.”

The queen reaches out, hands clawed and fingers curled.

“ _Let’s go_.” He feels their minds connect. The familiar brush of someone beyond himself. Of Kosmo reaching for him, searching his thoughts for a will— a place— somewhere to jump—

The feeling is familiar. The darkness. Feeling light and formless. Momentarily shifting. Stomach dropping. Cold. Twisted. Dizzy—

And then it all comes rushing back. Becomes solid. He’s used to blinking with Kosmo enough that the dizziness fades quickly.

There’s a moment of weightlessness— before they’re falling.

From high above the stone circle. He can see the circular funnel of the white gust as he falls towards it. Can see the darker shadows and figures coming together and clashing on the hill beyond. The wind whips at his body, at his clothes, at his hair, but gravity’s grip is strong. It drags him down— down— _down_ —

He and Kosmo drop in a free fall.

He holds his dagger high above his head— angling his body— ready to strike— flames dance down his arms, swirling and igniting along his blade— his teeth are bared— a shout rips from his throat, primal and raw and full of his _fury_ —

The queen watches him fall, and time seems to slow. He sees her standing there. Watches her hood fall back. Watches her long white hair tangle in the wind. Watches how her robes whip in the gust, billowing around her. Sees the way her eyes glow— smoking— body crackling with power as she reaches up— points at him—

Lightning surges—

He grabs Kosmo—

Displacement— stomach churning— body dizzy and weightless— _solid_.

As soon as he feels the ground beneath his feet— falling to a crouch— he strikes. Trusting himself. Trusting Kosmo to take him where he wanted to be. He stands quickly, both hands on his dagger handle, thrusting his arms out—

And sinking his blade into the queen’s back.

He feels the impact. Feels her sharp intake of breath. Feels her stumble a step— and they both freeze.

The air around them stills. The storm going quiet in the space between seconds. The snow and sleet weightless. The fog a white wall around them, held in a strange sort of pause. Their clothes— their hair— it hovers as the wind stops. As time seems to slow—

Keith’s magic surges through him. A force he’s never known. Bursting from his chest— from his core— and rolling through his veins like a tidal wave— until it hits his hands— his dagger—

And his dagger glows.

It lengthens.

The blade shoots out, forming a longer, curve sword— and shoving straight through the queen’s chest, licked with flames that hiss and sizzle as it burns away her icy flesh.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. Locked in time and frozen in space.

He isn’t sure how the moment ends.

One second they’re both still— and in the next, they’re both falling.

His blade turns to smoke, absorbing back into his palm and settling beneath his skin. But while he’s used to the prickle and burn, it’s nothing compared to _this_. To how it _writhes_ and _cuts_ , tearing at his arm from the inside.

He falls to his knees, hissing in pain with his fist clenched, as his other hand presses to his forearm, teeth gritted against the ache that throbs bone deep.

And a second later, the queen’s body falls. Limp and lifeless. Shattering like ice as she hits the ground.

He stares… and stares… and stares…

His arm hurts. His chest aches. His lungs sting. His blood burns. He feels drained beyond belief. Exhausted in a way he’s never known. Fit to collapse at any moment— and still he stares. Disbelieving.

Because it doesn’t feel real.

It feels like she could get up at any moment— like it’s not over yet— because it’s never over— it’s never—

“Keith.” The voice sounds very far away. A distant echo. But then it’s closer. Sharper. “ _Keith_.” A woman’s voice. A figure dropping to her knees at Keith’s side. One hand on his back and the other at his arm—

The pain begins to fade, and he lets out a shaky breath, turning to find Krolia crouched next to him, face severe and eyes searching— worried—

“Come,” she says, pulling him to his feet. He stumbles, but she catches him. Pulls his arm around her shoulder to support him. “We have to go. _Now_.”

And then they’re running— sprinting— fleeing—

Out of the stone circle.

Down the hill.

Into the forest.

Away from the body of the fallen winter queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments. I love hearing from you and hearing what you think and like <33 I don't have the mental stamina to respond to them, but they dO mean the world to me. They brighten my day, as I hope this fic brightens yours. I appreciate each and every once of you <33
> 
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	10. Never Give Them Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is still reeling and dazed, adrenaline in his veins making him dizzy as his mother and the Marmora tribe escort him away from the fallen Winter Queen. 
> 
> Until Lotor takes his mother's place, Keith isn't safe. So he lets Lance take him to the one place where the Winter Court can't touch him: the Summer Court. From one prison into another, but at least this time he has Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad you guys liked the fight scene from the last chapter! I've always enjoyed writing action scenes (which I understand is strange for most writers lol). Now to deal with the aftermath of Keith's actions and the fulfillment of Lotor's deal.
> 
> Happy reading <33

His feet are numb, and his legs feel heavy. He feels the jolt of every step through his spine, jarring and stilted. His lungs are burning, breath coming ragged and shallow. His arm hangs near limp at his side, the fire in his veins leveling out to a low simmer with Krolia’s help, but even her blood magic is unable to calm his completely. Needles prickle beneath his skin, pain starting to throb as his adrenaline threatens to wane and exhaustion nips at his heels.

Every breath— every step— every second that passes is agony.

And yet he keeps running.

Krolia is at his side. A steadfast presence that keeps pace. She’s the hand on his back whenever he starts to slow. The hand on his arm that catches him when he trips and stumbles. She keeps him going, pushing him forward with an urgency that tastes and burns like bile at the back of his tongue.

Kosmo is at his other side, his paws light and muted against the long grass. His presence gives Keith strength.

The world is a blur as they run from that hill— from the standing stones where the shattered remains of the winter queen lie.

Keith’s focus wobbles, and his vision drags. Gray dots dance in the corners of his eyes, obscuring the details of the forest around them. It’s all he can do to face forward. To keep from falling. To keep running and merely trust Krolia to guide his direction.

And as they run, figures fall into step around them. Not the tall, willowing dark silhouettes of the queen’s servants, but— others. Others who— from what Keith can see when they dart through his line of sight— are dressed like Krolia: skin tight suits with patches of armor, highlighted with glowing symbols that pierce the low hanging fog of the forest. Masks that hide their faces— smooth and without features, save for two glowing yellow eyes— but don’t hold the same animosity as the queen’s servants’ do.

The Marmora Tribe. His mother’s blood. His blood.

They run deep into the forest. Until the twilight sun is blocked out by gnarled, thick tree trunks, and the mist swallows everything whole—

And then the trees open up, revealing a clearing with a great oak in the center— no, _two_ great oaks. Whose trunks rise and come together, twisting into one tree. Branches long and thick, rising and falling around the clearing like a dome.

And at the base of the tree is an archway, formed where the trunks weave together.

An archway that shimmers, the faint translucent image of a veil shifting in a faint wind.

A faerie ring.

The others around him dart forward, sprinting without hesitation through the archway and fading from sight. But Keith’s pace wavers. His body is too heavy— too sore— and the exhaustion catches up quickly. He stumbles, balance thrown, and he doesn’t have the stretch to recover—

“Keith!” He knows that voice. Knows the body that catches him before he can fall. Lean and lithe, but so strong and so sturdy. He falls into those arms and feels himself go lax, body melting as he feels the familiar warmth— the familiar cold bite of air— the familiar scent of rain— the familiar spark of magic where their bodies touch—

“Lance,” he breathes, eyes closing, sighing when firm arms wrap around him.

But those arms shift him, force him to stand on his own so his hands can slide up to cup Keith’s face— running through his hair and fingertips dancing across his cheeks. His voice shakes, breathless and frantic. “Are you—“

“I’m okay.” HIs hands wrap around Lance’s wrists, eyes opening, trying to focus on that beautiful face and stormy blue gaze. He sighs again, forehead falling forward to press against Lance’s. “I’m okay. She’s gone. I’m okay.”

“Oh, Keith.” And then Lance’s lips are on his, soft and delicate. Gentle and lingering. They fit against his so perfectly. They’re grounding in a way nothing else is. The kiss chases away the last of his adrenaline, ushering in the exhaustion as he melts against Lance, but he doesn’t mind. Not when Lance makes him feel so safe— so whole— so—

Something… is different.

He can’t put his finger on it. Can’t quite follow where the thought comes from. Can’t quite parse through his muddled instincts and gut feelings to figure out where it’s stemming from. But something… is definitely different.

With Lance. With _them_.

Lance feels the same as he always has, pressed up against Keith. His body is the same. His touch is the same. His lips feel as they always have— sweet and addicting and filled with promise. But this is something… else. Something… _more_.

It’s… in the way their magic sparks together. In the way Lance’s presence feels, like a pressure pressed against the edges of his mind. The air between them feels charged, static, in ways that it never has. In _different_ ways. It’s something new in his chest. A sensation of _something_ tied and heavy. A weight he hasn’t felt before. An _awareness_ of Lance that he’s never felt before.

It’s not… _bad_.

But it’s new. It’s different. It’s strange.

And he doesn’t have time to dwell on it as Lance pulls away. As Lance takes him by the arms and pulls him forward. “We have to go.”

Hands pressed together, fingers intertwined, Lance pulls him through the faerie ring, and Keith concentrates on the warmth of his palm as the world shifts and bleeds and presses in around him.

* * *

The fey will attest that the summer lands are vastly different from the winter lands, but Keith doesn’t quite agree.

While the summer lands lack any trace of snow— while they consist of rolling green landscapes, lush trees, filled out bushes, and fully bloomed flowers— while the air is warm and thick and fills his lungs heavily— while the scent of honey is on the wind and the buzz of bugs is a chorus and clamor missing from the silent and beautifully still winter lands— there’s still the vibration of magic in the air.

It dances across his skin, playful and tingling, so different and yet so similar to the winter lands’ magic.

The landscapes still have that sense of wonder, carved and sculpted from fairytales, similar enough to the human realm for there to be a sense of comfort, but still riding the line of being too strange— too beautiful— too… _everything_.

The flowers are large and vibrant. The trees are tall and consuming. The undergrowth is wild and untamed.

It’s beautiful, but there’s the same strange underlying sense of danger that Keith had felt in the winter lands. The feeling of being on edge. The subtle malice in even the simplest of flowers.

The fey will say that the summer lands are vastly different, but Keith is starting to understand that the differences between summer and winter aren’t as opposite as he’s been led to believe.

After all, just like the courts, fey are fey, and the fey realm is far from black and white.

The faerie ring takes them to the summer lands, and they run long after they pass through the portal. Keith’s body aches, but Lance is at his side, holding onto him, being the strength that Keith finds waning. Kosmo and Krolia are there, too. And with their help, Keith doesn’t fall.

They don’t stop until they’re well into the woods, passing through thick undergrowth, pushing aside tangled thorn thickets to find hidden paths, using dangling vines to swing over rivers. Until the eternal twilight can barely be seen peeking through the thick canopy. Until they reach an area that has thickets woven between tree trunks, forming makeshift walls to encase a small clearing.

There, a camp is already made, and there is where they settle.

A fire is already burning, bringing light and warmth to their small, secluded glade. By the time Keith stumbles into the campsite, most of the Marmora fey are already there. They go about their business— setting things up, tending to wounds— but their masks are gone and their hoods are down.

Most of them have the same purple undertone to their skin, though there are wide varieties between it being a subtle violet like his own, and being dark and bold. There are also variations. Some with more blue tones like Acxa. Some who are different altogether.

Nearly all of them have facial markings like him and Krolia, though not all of them look the same. Some are taller, some leaner, some bulkier. Some have long limbs and curling fingers with extra knuckles. Some have extra arms. Some have more eyes, while others have less— some with no eyes at all. Some with horns, others with tails. Some— like himself and Krolia— have the look of high fey, mostly human with sharp and angular features. But others are more feline. And others still are more reptilian.

Glancing amongst the unmasked Marmora tribe, Keith realizes that despite them being his blood, they’re just as varied as any other fey— as humans themselves, but perhaps more extreme.

They spare him looks, but unlike the fey of the court, they try to be discreet about it.

Not that Keith cares too much in this moment. He’s not sure he can trust them, but for now, he’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. They had, after all, helped him. And both Krolia and Lance seem at ease in their presence. So for now, Keith will let himself relax.

He collapses by the fire, legs finally giving out the moment he allows himself to stop. Lance goes down with him, still holding on, helping to lower him as gently as he can. And with them both sitting by the fire, Keith leans into Lance. Falls into him, really. Unable to hold himself up. Lance doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Keith, holding him tight— holding him gentle— holding him protectively as Keith nuzzles into the curve of his neck and lets out a long, broken sigh.

Kosmo lays behind them, large body pressed against them, curling protectively around them both as golden eyes keep a watch on the movement around the campsite.

He must have drifted off, and he only knows as much because Lance has to gently jostle him awake. He stiffens with a start, eyes snapping open and heart racing before Lance’s arms tighten around him, his lips at Keith’s forehead, whispering softly, “It’s just me. We’re okay.”

Keith relaxes immediately, melting back into Lance’s embrace and sighing against his collarbone, arms tightening around Lance’s waist. The fire light burns his tired eyes, so he lets them close. “How long have I been out?” He mumbles.

Lance hums softly. “Perhaps an hour. They’ve been setting up the campsite, and food should be ready soon. The scouts have rotated, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone following us.”

“Good,” Keith grumbles, fingers curling into the back of Lance’s tunic, the glamoured material thin and smooth where it bunches against his palms.

He wonders why he was awoken to begin with, but he doesn’t ask. Already feels himself drifting once more. His body feels heavy, throbbing with a dull ache down to his core. Adrenaline gone, exhaustion seeping in, he feels spent and hollow. Far worse than even Shiro’s toughest training sessions.

But still… he survived. He did it. And he’ll have to thank Shiro for how well he had been prepared.

“She keeps staring at you…” Lance whispers, hushed voice gently pulling him from the unconsciousness he’s been pleasantly sinking into.

“Hmmm?”

“That woman… the fey leading this group. She keeps looking over here…”

Keith opens his eyes, squinting against the firelight as he lifts his head. He finds her easily enough. The camp has settled, the Marmora fey sitting around and gathered in small clusters, talking quietly amongst themselves. Krolia stands at the outer edge of the glade, speaking with a few fey who must be scouts.

She seems to notice his movement, or perhaps it’s mere coincidence, but either way, she tilts her head and their eyes meet. And subtly— barely there in a way he knows from his own way of expression— she smiles before turning back to the fey.

He can feel Lance go stiff, but Keith pays it little mind as he settles back against him, resting his head on Lance’s shoulder with a soft exhale. “That’s just Krolia.”

Lance’s hands have been gently rubbing his back, tracing idle patterns and trailing soothing touches up and down his spine. But at this, Keith feels his touch still— falter for _just a moment_ — before continuing. It’s far more telling than the far too casual way he says, “Oh…? A friend of yours?”

Keith gives a sharp, short exhale. A nearly formed snort. “Something like that.” And then softer, “I met her at the court.”

Lance hums thoughtfully. “She was… _very_ adamant about helping you. She rallied the Marmora tribe behind her, and setting the trap to lure out the queen and keep her servants busy… that was her idea.”

Keith tilts his head, opening his eyes enough to squint up at Lance, lips pursed into a scowl. “… And the idea to use you as bait?”

Lance doesn’t look at him, his own gazed lingering across the clearing where Krolia stands. But Keith watches as his features relax, melting and lifting into a small smile. “ _That_ part was my idea.”

“Idiot.” Keith turns his head to mumble it against Lance’s neck, pressing a kiss there in his voice’s wake.

“Careful now, knight,” Lance whispers, teasing and light. “It’s dangerous to insult a fey.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” he says with absolute certainty.

“No,” Lance says softly. “I wouldn’t.” Keith smiles against his throat, heart giddy and chest warm. Beneath it all, there’s still that _odd_ feeling. The strangeness he feels. Like a tether that hadn’t been there before. One that goes beyond himself, and one that he’s certain Lance is at the end of.

He’ll have to ask about that. Not that he _minds_ being connected to Lance. They’ve always had a connection. He’s felt drawn to the man in ways that he can’t explain and in ways he can’t fight. But this feels… _different_. Far more solid than simple emotional connection. Far more tangible than simply loving the man.

But as he opens his mouth to ask, Lance beats him to it with a question of his own.

“She seems very fixated on you… I have nothing to worry about, right?” It’s said playfully, a teasing lilt keeping his voice light. But Keith _knows_ Lance, and Lance’s mask has never been very pristine around Keith. He can hear the subtle undertones of uncertainty. The subtext of worry.

Keith presses his lips to the hollow of Lance’s throat, a gentle and reassuring gesture that has Lance relaxing. “Nothing to worry about,” he says. He doesn’t bother teasing Lance about it. He doesn’t have the energy, and he’d rather put Lance at ease. So he follows up by mumbling, “I think… she’s my mom.”

Lance stills, his breath hitching before he lets it out with a soft, “Your mom?”

“Yeah…” He sighs, buries his face in Lance’s shoulder and curls closer, practically in the other man’s lap. Beside them, Kosmo shifts, filling in the space Keith has made, pressing the three of them closer. “We haven’t… talked about it yet. But… she gave me my true name, and… it’s just a feeling I get? Like I just… _know_.”

“Yeah,” Lance breathes, fingers carding through Keith’s hair, voice distant and thoughtful. “Keith that’s…”

“I know… but I don’t— I don’t want to talk to her yet. Not about— _that_. There’s just… too much going on.”

Lance hums, and Keith feels it vibrate where his hands press to Lance’s back. “After everything. When this is all resolved, and the mantles are destroyed… you should talk to her.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I will.” He shifts, whispering softly, uncertainly, “When I do talk to her… can you be there?”

“Of course,” Lance says, pressing his lips to Keith’s temple, breathing warmth against his skin. “I will always be there when you need me. From here on out.”

It sounds like a promise.

It resonates like a vow.

It rings with truth.

* * *

Like the winter court, the summer court is nestled at the heart of a valley.

Deep within the summer lands, rolling green mountains without a fleck of snow border a near perfect circular valley. The mountains fall into rolling hills, flattening out to fields of tall grass that shift in the wind like waves. Flowers create splotches of color amongst the shades of green.

The fields give way to a lake, perfect and pristine, waters blue and sparkling in the twilight, purples and oranges and reds reflecting off the surface much like it had off the snowfields of the winter lands.

A land bridge cuts across the lake, connecting the shore to a singular island.

It’s a circular landmass in the center of the lake, large and imposing, even from this distance. Able to be seen from anywhere in the valley. It rises from the waters like a small mountain. Trees, vines, and moss decorate the stone buildings, wrapping up and around the island. It looks like a city, building up and spiraling to the tip, where a palace sits, carved from white stone that’s draped in vines that bloom flowers of vibrant colors.

There’s no mistaking the grandeur and ostentatious display. Power practically radiates from the island, aura of magic thick in the air and sticking to his skin like humidity, clogging up his lungs and putting him on edge.

The summer court looks nothing like the winter court, and yet it still fills him with dread all the same.

Keith’s stomach is still unsettled, energy crackling and popping across his skin like static, but he’s not sure if either sensation is remnants from coming through a faerie ring or from being so close to another faerie court. Lance stands beside him at the edge of a cliff, high up the mountains above the lake. Behind them, the rest of the Marmora tribe step through the faerie ring.

He tears his gaze from the court to glance at Lance. He stands tall, chin held high and eyes hard as he stares down at the court. The marks beneath his eyes pulse faintly, steadily, like a heartbeat, and the warm summer breeze dances playfully through his white hair. The white freckles across his nose shimmer like speckles of snow. Ears long and pointed. His features sharp and regal.

His clothes are crafted expertly, shimmering in the twilight, form fitting and rich, styling into the same sort of fashion Keith had come to associate with fey courts. Though summer fashion seems to be of brighter colors, the design is along the same vein.

Lance has always been beautiful, but here, without his glamour, standing atop a mountain and gazing cooly down at the palace below… he’s ethereal. He’s otherworldly. And Keith has to reach out for his hand, snagging and tangling their fingers together merely to assure himself that Lance is really here— that he’s solid and he’s _real_.

Lance’s gaze snaps down to their hands, then moves up slowly to meet Keith’s. His face is carefully crafted into something impassive. It’s not the smiling mask he usually wears, but something… tighter. Something more somber. His jaw is tight, but his features are smooth and lax. His blue eyes still, like the mirror surface of a pond.

Yet despite his perfect mask, Keith knows something is wrong. He can feel the apprehension in the air. It buzzes between them, tugging on that _thing_ tied to Keith’s chest. And he simply… knows. He knows what Lance is trying to hide.

But as Lance looks at him, his mask cracks. Just barely, but just enough. His clenched jaw loosens, and the corner of his lips tugs into the smallest of smiles. The still surface of his eyes ripple, something soft and fond leaking through the glass perfection.

Keith squeezes his fingers, stepping closer, until their arms are pressed together, keeping his voice low and private as he asks, “Aren’t you happy to be back?”

Because while he knows Lance hates being at court— he’s never said as much, but he’s implied it enough— they both know that for now, they’re safe here. As much as they’d both love to go back to Keith’s home, they can’t. Not until this whole thing is finished.

As much as they hate it, until Keith’s mantle is dissolved, he’s safest here at the summer court. Allura has agreed to allow him refuge— under careful watch— until they wait for word from Prince Lotor.

Lance sighs— a barely perceptible breath passing between his lips and a slight sag to his shoulders— and turns back to the lake below. That ripple of fondness in his gaze hardens once more. “Things are… different now.”

Keith is quiet. Lets the warm breeze roll past them as they stand atop the cliff. It plays with Lance’s hair, but it barely warms the air around them. Lance’s natural chill persists. But his hand is hot to the touch.

Around them, the Marmora fey pause, and Keith glances over his shoulder to meet Krolia’s gaze. She lifts a brow, and he gives a pointed tilt to his head.

She nods, and gestures for the others to follow as she heads down the twisting path.

He waits until they’re gone before he speaks. “The court has been your home for years… what’s so different now?”

Lance sighs through his nose before turning to Keith. Fingers still intertwined, his other hand comes up to rest on Keith’s chest. Right over his brand. Right over his heart. His clothes are glamour, nothing more than light and illusion magic, and he can feel the heat of Lance’s palm. The bite of his nails when his fingers flex.

His gaze is downturned, staring at his hand. And as he steps into Keith’s space, his mask melts once more. Concern flickers across Lance’s features. A hint of worry. A pinch of awe. A furrow to his brows and a purse to his lips.

“You feel it… don’t you?” He asks, breathless and strained. As if he’s worried it might not be real. Worried that Keith might not know what he means.

But Keith understands.

And Keith feels it.

He lifts his free hand, covering Lance’s on his chest. “I do.” The strange feeling in his chest. Something heavy tied to his soul. A cord he knows leads back to Lance. “But I don’t know what it is.”

Lance’s head tilts to the side. A small smile curls at the corner of his lips, wistful and distant. “It’s old fey magic. The magic that’s woven into our very souls. It’s part of _who_ we are. The same magic that binds us with our true names and keeps us tied to ancient faerie laws. It’s the price we pay for our magic.” His smile dims. The chill around them sends shivers down Keith’s spine, making him lean into Lance’s touch. “As you know, we have to repay our debts.”

Keith nods, humming softly as his thumb caresses Lance’s knuckles.

“The most valuable debt is a life debt. And you know how fey laws are about the rule of three. If a fey owes three unpaid life debts… their soul is eternally bound to the one who saved it.”

He looks up then, blue irises stormy and dark through his lashes, swirling with so much— far too much— His brows are pinched, betraying his worry, but still he smiles. Light and easy, with a hint of playfulness and a dash of charm, igniting a spark of fondness that softens the storm in his eyes.

“You saved my life three times,” he says softly, voice breathless and hoarse.

And through that strange connection in his chest, Keith knows it isn’t an _anxiousness_ that Lance is feeling, but simply… something _overwhelming_. Something full and consuming. Something wholesome and gentle and warm, and _yes_ , a little nervous, too. But not negative. If anything, there’s a vibration of giddiness that rattles through their connection, held on a tight leash but there nonetheless.

“You saved my life when we were kids, in the fallen building.” His fingers curl into Keith’s tunic. “You saved my life from Sendak.” He steps forward, until their bodies are flush— so firm and soft and fitting together in all the right ways— and the warmth of him seeps into Keith’s skin. “And now… you saved my life when you refused the queen’s orders to have me killed, killing her instead.”

Lance leans forward, resting his forehead against Keith’s. His eyes flutter closed, white lashes long and beautiful against his cheekbones. He sighs, soft and sweet against Keith’s lips.

“I never repaid any of them. Not officially. And now… my soul belongs to you.”

“Lance…” Keith breathes, unsure of what else to say, awed and floored and left speechless as he tries to process what it means— the implications— all the times he’s saved Lance’s life without considering what it would mean when he refused to accept Lance’s repayment— when _Lance_ didn’t consider his debt repaid. They’ve both been playing with the fire of ancient faerie law, and now they’ve forged a connection with it that can’t be taken back.

Lance is bound to him.

“ _Lance_ ,” he whispers, voice hoarse and broken. His hand leaving Lance’s to card his fingers through Lance’s soft hair, cradling his head and pressing their foreheads together until it hurts. And because it’s the only word that feels right on his tongue, he says again, “Lance…”

“It’s not that I’m afraid to go back to court… but I’m worried about what this means. This bond… it can’t be broken. Everything I am is _yours_ , and not even Allura can command me to act against you. All court fey are bound to royal blood, but now…”

“Now you’re bound to me…”

“Yeah… Now you own me.”

Keith’s heart flutters just as his stomach sinks. A warmth and a chill oozing down his spine in tandem. Hope and dread war within his heart. Butterflies and hornets in equal measure. Because while it makes him giddy to know Lance is bound to him— that he could defy the court for him— there’s just… something about it that doesn’t feel quite _right_.

Many fey would leap at the opportunity to own another. In fact, they do. Often and with fervor. Doing whatever they can to gain power and control over others. It’s what they thrive on, and it’s what makes them so dangerous. But Keith… doesn’t want that power. Least of all over _Lance_.

He doesn’t want to _own_ Lance.

He just wants to be _with_ Lance.

His fingers tighten in Lance’s hair, using his leverage to move his head to the side. He leans forward, pressing his lips to Lance’s ear. There, he whispers. Breath hot against Lance’s skin. Voice barely audible.

Keith shivers as his true name passes his lips.

Full body shudders that wrack down his spine and rattle through his bones. His chest squeezes painfully, ribs cutting into his lungs as he nearly wheezes out the name. It’s an ache in his bones. A burn in his blood as his magic ignites, simmering beneath his skin. His hair stands on end— on edge— hackles rising— on the tipping point of fight or flight—

He never knew how it would feel like to give away a piece of his soul, but now he does.

When he leans back, Lance is staring at him, eyes wide and lips parted. Startled— surprised— bewildered— awed—

“Keith—“ he says, voice strained and choked, overwhelmed and thick with emotion.

Keith just smiles, leaning forward to press a sweet, lingering, firm kiss to Lance’s lips. Fitting them together as they were meant to be. Claiming his space there and then whispering against his mouth. “You are mine, and _I_ am _yours_.”

* * *

Keith has gotten glimpses of the mask Lance wears at court. He had assumed he knew. Had assumed he was prepared. But he’s not. Not in the slightest.

It’s a gradual shift as they trail down the mountain path toward the lake. It begins with his hand slipping from Keith’s— reluctant but without lingering. He distances himself with every step, moving ahead of Keith, the Marmora fey falling into step behind him until Lance is in the lead.

Keith watches his chin lift and never fall. Watches his shoulders pull back and relax, making his posture tall but casual. Even his stride changes, the way he shifts his weight as he walks. It becomes more languid, smooth and graceful. Effortless and light, with a clipped edge that’s telling of his importance.

The air around them grows colder, strange and foreign in contrast to the humid heat. It doesn’t just thin the air. It also gives a bite to it that stings the back of Keith’s throat and needles at his lungs. That, in and of itself, is unnerving. Lance’s chill has always been welcome and comforting. It’s never been harsh like the ice of the winter court.

He’s beginning to understand why the court fey are wary of Lance, and how he’s been able to hold his position for so long.

For a moment, Keith watches the ground where Lance steps, half expecting ice to form in his wake. But no, the tall grass and vibrant flowers don’t freeze. Lance’s touch is still warm.

And Keith also begins to understand just how strange the drastic dichotomy is in Lance’s blood. The heat of his body and the chill in his presence. Two entirely opposing forces by fey nature, and yet they weave together seamlessly to form someone as beautiful, powerful, and dangerous as Lance.

Because that’s another thing that shifts.

The inherent sense of _danger_. Lance, despite being fey, has never triggered Keith’s instincts. Not wholly. In fact, Keith often let his guard down around him. He’s grown comfortable in Lance’s presence, finding his aura familiar and wholesome.

But as Lance adopts his court mask, that changes. Small shifts. Small changes. Happening in the space between breaths, blinks, and steps. Pieces falling into place, building up a perfectly courtly fey carved from smooth and impenetrable marble. Keith can’t pinpoint what about it sets him on edge, but he feels his instincts flaring up, fight or flight threatening to trigger, itching beneath his skin and making his hair stand on end.

He can’t see Lance’s face, and he’s glad for that. He’s afraid of what he’ll see.

He had thought he’d be prepared, but he isn’t. This isn’t _Lance_.

And it occurs to him just how comfortable Lance is around _him_ to have dropped _so much_ of his guard.

The walk to the court is a long one, and as they near the lake, the Marmora fey stop. Keith pauses, glancing over his shoulder to where they stand in the sea of grass. Krolia stands closest, Kosmo at her side, gaze hard but smile gentle as she says, “We are welcome in the summer lands, but not at court. Lance will escort you the rest of the way.” When he hesitates further, she says softly, “We will speak again when this is all over.” Her hand falls to the wolf’s head. “And I’ll take care of him for you.”

He purses his lips, giving her a curt nod before turning on his heel. He wishes Kosmo could come with him— misses the dog terribly if he’s being honest— but bringing a blink wolf with him would be too dangerous. No one would trust him if they knew he could get anywhere within the space of a breath.

So he turns away from his mother and his companion.

Lance has stopped ahead of him, half turned to glare back in his direction— no, glare isn’t right. He stares, eyes hard and still, perfect gemstones catching the twilight. Beautiful, but giving nothing away. His face is carved from marble, smooth and sharp and pristine. Not a wrinkle shows. His lips— pretty lips that Keith has seen smile, and frown, and scowl, and laugh— are a smooth line. A sculpture with no emotion.

“Come, knight,” he says, voice cold, indifferent, and impassive. Commanding without heat. Demanding with an edge of boredom. Clipped but smooth. The voice of a stranger, hollow and cold, accompanied by stern, still eyes that show nothing of the Lance Keith has come to know. “The princess is waiting.”

He turns and continues across the land bridge, stride confident and even.

And there’s nothing for Keith to do but follow, swallowing past the lump of uncertainty caught in his throat and trying to steel against the dread that crawls beneath his skin.

* * *

The summer court is just as beautiful as the winter court. The palace is carved from white stone, covered with vines that sprout vibrant flowers of all shapes and sizes. Outside the palace is an extensive garden, and inside the palace more plants reign. They crawl through the hallways. They’re carved into the stone. They sit in vases and twist up lattices.

The windows display colorful works of stained glass, and the rugs that line the halls feel like walking on a forest floor. The columns are carved like tree trunks and the archways like canopies.

It’s just as decadent, just as rich, and just as elaborate as the winter court, simply with different themes and different color schemes. Things are green and warm. On the surface, the summer court looks like a fairy tale. Everything looks like it should be inviting, magical, and homey. After being in the cold, indifferent halls of the winter court, Keith thinks he should feel at home here.

But the summer court has the same deceivingly beautiful visage of a poisonous flower. Every vibrant color and elegant decoration is merely a pretty little warning bell for the poison that lays beneath the surface.

Allura, the summer princess, is no different.

Though no taller than himself, she stands with a presence that dwarfs him. Smooth dark skin and thick white hair that’s piled high on her head, falling in twisting tendrils to frame her sharp features. Gemstone eyes that glitter different shades, shifting and refracting the eternal twilight.

He’s seen her once before. When he first took the mantle of knight and she took his memories from him. Then, she had been beautiful, intimidating, but… gentle. He had seen the side of her that Lance called friend. The side that was worried for Lance and regretful for Keith’s situation.

Here and now, she is something else entirely.

Powerful. Untouchable. Her gown shifts and sways in a summer breeze that wraps around them like a dry wind, completely negating Lance’s chill. She watches them approach from the top of the stone steps leading to the palace. Statuesque. Otherworldly. In another light, she could _almost_ be considered human. Human, but something more.

And seeing her watch them climb the steps, he understands how cultures around the world have modeled their gods and goddesses from fey.

Behind her and off to the side, standing firm and impassive, stands Shiro. Tall and broad. Dressed in regal armor emblazoned with the symbol of his knighthood across the breast. Hand resting on the handle of a sword that hangs from his hip.

His glamour is gone, and as Keith meets his eyes, he nearly stumbles.

He’s never seen Shiro without his glamour.

His features look sharper, as most feys’ do, exaggerated in ways that are just on the cusp of being not quite human. His hair is ashen gray, and the way it moves in the breeze makes it seem nearly like mist or smoke rather than something solid. His ears are pointed, but not like Lance’s or Allura’s. They come to a tip and then go long and slender, curling into a small spiral behind his head. His skin is still pale, but littered with far more scars than Keith has ever known he has. And more than that, there are marks. Subtle and white, looking like feathers tattooed against his flesh.

And his eyes… they lack the whites and pupils of his human form. Pure silver, molten and shifting like mercury trapped in glass eyes.

Shiro holds himself imposing and indifferent, with a slight crease between his brows and lips pressed into a thin line. It’s the same sort of mask that Keith has come to expect from the fey. But Shiro hadn’t been raised at court, and he’s been in the human realm for a long, long time. As their eyes meet, Keith sees his mask crumble. Sees the flicker of surprise dart across his eyes as they widen briefly, lips parting as his jaw falls open—

And then just as quickly as it comes, he schools his features, but not without an added scowl of effort. The silver depths of his eyes, however, swirl with far more emotion than he lets himself show.

It takes every ounce of will power that Keith possesses to stay behind Lance. To keep his feet rooted to the stone and not run up the steps and throw himself at Shiro.

While they seem alone, Keith knows they’re not. Only Allura and Shiro stand in the open awaiting their arrival, but Keith can feel the eyes on them. Has felt them the entire walk up through the island. He can see movement out of the corner of his eyes as fey hide within the vines and hedges and trees. The palace is shaped like a forest, and from that forest, the eyes of the court watch— eager, curious, and hungry.

“Princess,” Lance says in greeting, respectful as he gives a proper bow. “I’ve brought the winter knight and good news. Our plan has worked. The winter queen is dead.”

Allura doesn’t look at him once, eyes kept steady on Lance as she inclines her head. “Good news indeed. Come.” She turns, her gown fluttering out in a wide, graceful arch. “We shall discuss what to do next and what measure to be taken. Shiro,” she says as she passes him, gesturing almost lazily in the air. “Keep an eye on the winter knight. He isn’t to move from this spot until otherwise ordered.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Shiro says, bowing as she leaves. He takes her place at the top of the steps as the doors to the palace close behind her and Lance. He crosses his arms over his chest, staring Keith down.

And there… they wait.

Every second feels like infinity, stretched and slow. He stays as still as he can, shifting his weight on occasion as he mirrors Shiro’s stance: arms over his chest and scowling. It’s surprisingly easy to slip back into the knight persona he had crafted while at the winter court. He only hopes it works just as well here.

The passage of time is impossible to tell. The twilight never moves. Seconds pass only in his heart beat and the space between breaths.

And still he stares down Shiro. Gazes locked, both still as stone, trying to project a show of knights, all the while silently trying to communicate with eyes alone. It’s hard to read Shiro like this— with his eyes entirely silver— but he still thinks he can read the shift and waves in that molten gaze. He wonders what Shiro thinks about his own fey form. Hopes that Shiro can still read him, too.

He uses Shiro as a focal point, grounding himself in the moment, in only each other, and using that focus to block out the fey that watch. He can hear them, creeping and slithering through the underbrush and across stone. He can hear their whispers filling up the silence in the princess’s absence. He can see them move out of the corner of his eye, and his instincts crawl with the desire to shy away— but still he holds firm, using Shiro as an anchor of strength.

He can practically hear his voice.

_Patience yields focus._

He’s lost in it, letting time slip away and drag in equal measure, sinking into the same headspace he used to get by in the winter court— and startles when one of the doors behind Shiro open.

Not both. Only one. Only cracked wide enough for once person to slip out— _Lance_.

Keith feels his shoulders relax and hopes his face doesn’t give him away.

Court Lance is still there, still perfect and pristine and so incredibly far out of his reach. Carved from ice and radiating power with every step.

“Shiro.” Keith has heard him say Shiro’s name many times before, but never like this. Never with a commanding indifference and a chill frosting his words. He steps up next to Shiro, holding out a hand. A collar dangles from his fingertips. Carved from smooth white crystal. “Put this on the winter knight.”

Shiro says nothing, merely nods stiffly as he takes the collar, but Keith can see the purse of his lips and the way his temple ticks as he works his jaw. Shiro moves down the steps toward him, movements clipped, graceful, and radiating power.

“Bow your head,” he says as he stops in front of Keith, and while Keith knows he’s trying to sound carefully neutral, there’s a softness at the edge of his words and a crack deep in his voice.

Keith does as he’s asked, and Shiro gently closes the collar around his neck.

As soon as it snaps into place, Keith’s gasps. It’s— _suffocating_. The crystal is cool to the touch and settles heavily against his collarbones. He can feel it sapping his energy immediately, and while it’s loose enough to barely touch his neck, he feels like he’s _choking_. His magic flees from his veins, shrinking into his core, thrashing and writhing as it fights to be free— but it’s forced deep inside him.

He can still feel it, but only barely. Only enough to feel an ember in his chest and nothing more.

It feels… a lot like how he grew up, locking his own magic away. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d grown used to having that magic simmering in his veins at all times— or how comforting it has become while trapped in the fey realm. That is, until it’s gone, and he feels hollow, helpless, vulnerable, and cold.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro mutters, lips barely moving and voice low enough to stay between the two of them. He looks up to meet Keith’s gaze, and even though Keith finds his solid colored eyes difficult to read, there’s no mistaking the lines of strain around them. “We’ll get you out of this, Keith. I promise. We’ll find a way to free you.”

Keith lets his lips tug into the shadow of a smile. One far too slight for the watchful court fey to see, but one he knows Shiro can see. He longs to reach out for Shiro, to squeeze his shoulder or fold himself into a hug. But he doesn’t. He can’t. “As long as Lotor doesn’t try to weasel out of our deal, we’re _both_ going to be free.”

Shiro sighs softly through his nose, mercury eyes swirling wistfully. “Wouldn’t that be a dream…”

“It’ll be our _reality_ ,” Keith says firmly.

“Winter knight.” Lance’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, yet layered with a lazy sort of boredom. “Come.”

Keith swears he sees a smile shimmering in Shiro’s molten eyes. “Go ahead. He’ll take care of you.”

Keith does his best to school his features as Shiro steps aside to let him pass, muttering a soft, “I know,” as he stares up the steps at the man waiting for him.

He hates to admit how he feels walking up the steps, intimidated and unnerved by Lance’s gazed locked on him, dark and intense and making his skin shiver and crawl with uncertainty. But as he stops in front of the fey— watching carefully as he is— he sees the slight dip of his shoulder, the softening of the hard lines around his lips, the brief but bright glint in his eyes.

And the next breath he takes is easier because of it.

“Princess Allura has put you under my ward,” Lance says, lifting a hand and curling his fingers as he spins on his heel. “Come.”

He follows Lance. Follows him through the great oak doors and into the palace of the summer court. Follows him at a respectful distance— carefully keeping his steps from being too eager— as Lance leads him through the twisting, winding halls.

Where the winter court had been hard angles, vaulted ceilings, and grand open spaces, the summer court is different. All the halls are rounded and curved, spiraling them deeper and deeper into the palace, until Keith is sure it’s meant to confuse and confound visitors, losing them until they can never leave. Navigating the winter court had been a maze, but the summer court is like being lost in a jungle, where nothing is predictable and everything is wild. The ceilings are low, carvings and statues and plants giving everything a feeling of being closed in.

It would be homey, were it not for the underlying feeling of hostility that Keith feels creeping in the shadows.

They move up through the levels of the palace, both by incline and by steps. Dark halls lit by dancing motes of light and fireflies, trapped in crystal spheres that hang from vines.

Keith can feel the eyes on them. Can feel the weight of the stares. He can feel the pressing aura of the summer fey. Some like a hot, dry wind. Some bringing with them the sickly sweet scent of wild flowers. Some bathed in the salt of the sea. Some thick and rotting, heated and humid and clinging to his skin like sweat.

Lance keeps his head forward, eyes locked on a destination that Keith can’t see. He follows Lance’s lead, gaze focused on Lance and only Lance, staying close enough to feel his familiar and comforting chill, smelling the scent of fresh rain on a warm beach, ignoring the heavy stares and whispered voices just as he had at the winter court.

The stares, however, grow less and less frequent the deeper they move into the palace. The whispers become softer until they fade away. Until all Keith can hear is the soft sound of their footsteps on the mossy stones and the cry of crickets and cicadas. Lance leads them down a wide hall, empty and elaborately decorated. And Keith knows enough from his own time in the winter court that this must be the royal wing.

Lance leads him to a door, dark wood, carved with flowers, tucked between two pillars shaped like trees, half hidden by hanging vines. As he touches the handle, Keith feels a surge of cold and hears the door click open. Lance steps through the curtain of vines, pushing the door open and moving into the room beyond.

Keith follows after him, and he gets the briefest impression of a bedroom before Lance is turning on him— slamming the door shut and shoving Keith up against it—

And then Lance is pressed up against him, his warmth familiar and welcoming, chasing away the chill Keith feels at the absence of his own magic’s heat. His body is soft and solid, fitting against Keith’s in all the ways he loves. Lance’s hands are at his chest, flitting nervously around his neck and the collar before cupping his jaw in his palms, long fingers sinking into his hair as he kisses Keith— hard and desperate, all teeth and pressure and soft lips as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Keith. I’m so sorry.”

Keith wraps an arm around Lance’s waist, holding him against his chest as his other hand cards through Lance’s hair, tilting his head to kiss him back— to press his tongue past those pliant lips to claim his mouth— to swallow his words and erase the guilt and pain he can hear bleeding into Lance’s voice.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” Keith says as they pull apart to catch their breath. He leans back far enough to rest his head against the door, still close enough to feel Lance’s heavy breaths against his lips but far enough away to get a good look at him. Court Lance has melted away, leaving the soft, playful, affectionate Lance that he fell for twice. His hand slides from behind Lance’s head to cup his cheek, and Lance immediately nuzzles into his palm.

“Used to what?” He mumbles.

“You apologizing. Fey don’t— _shouldn’t_ — apologize.”

Lance huffs out a soft scoff, practically rolling his eyes as his gaze lifts to Keith’s. A smirk teases the edge of his lips, wet and pink from Keith’s kiss. “What’s going to happen? I apologize, admit I’m in the wrong, and owe you a debt? You already own my soul, Keith.” With the admission, he turns his head, pressing a soft kiss to Keith’s palm.

“Still not a great habit to get into,” he mutters, breathless and transfixed. His thumb moves, gently caressing one of the blue marks glowing faintly just beneath his eyes.

“In court? Yes. With other fey? Yes. With you? I’ll take my chances.” He gives Keith a cheeky little wink before chuckling briefly, trailing off with a sigh. “Spending so much time with you and Hunk and Shiro must have domesticated me. I didn’t think twice before apologizing to you.”

Keith scoffs, light and playful. “Look how far you’ve fallen. From a favorite of the summer princess to apologizing to an ironblood.”

“I...” Something flickers across Lance’s face. A ripple of understanding that Keith can’t piece together before it settles into amusement. Lance chuckles, light and giddy, bordering on gently hysterical as his eyes shut, turning his face to hide in Keith’s hand. “I suppose you’re right, and I suppose my grandmother is never wrong.”

“What does—“

“But I am sorry about this,” Lance interrupts, tapping a fingernail against the crystal collar. His humor fades, replaced with frustrated guilt. “It dampens your magic. I didn’t want to put it on you, and neither did Allura, but it was the only way the court would be comfortable letting you walk free. Allura gave me a choice, either we collar you and you would be allowed to wait as my ward in my rooms… or you would have to wait in the dungeon.”

“I’m glad you chose the collar then.”

Lance huffs out a soft snort. “Yeah, me, too.”

“But… I’m still sorry you have to wear it.” His fingertips gently trace the inside curve, brushing against Keith’s neck. “It must be uncomfortable…”

He shrugs. “I used to suppress my magic all the time. It sort of feels like that.”

Lance hums, falling forward to rest his head on Keith’s shoulder, face turned toward his neck. His hand falls, resting his palm over Keith’s heart— over his brand. “It’s all about appearances right now. Keeping the court from prying while we wait for word from Lotor.” Lance sighs, hot and heavy against Keith’s neck. “So until then, you’re essentially locked in my room.”

Keith snorts, reaching for the hand laid over his chest and prying if off gently. He lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to Lance’s knuckles. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

“I’d rather be back in your home in the human realm,” Lance mutters, walking the line between bitter and wistful. “Curled up on the couch with you and Kosmo.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” He holds Lance’s hand, running his thumb along his knuckles. Up close, he realizes that Lance’s nails are naturally white, shimmering with faint colors like opals. “So now we just… wait?”

“Mhm…” Lance hums. He pulls away from Keith, taking a step back and taking his hands. He walks backwards slowly, tugging Keith along. The weariness, guilt, and worry evaporate from his features, replaced with something coy and mischievous. There’s a hunger in his eyes that Keith has come to know and love, heated interest immediately curling low.

“I wonder what we can do to pass the time…” Keith mumbles, stalking after Lance, voice low and rough. He sees Lance shudder, and when he pushes into his space and pulls him back against his chest, Lance melts immediately into his embrace.

“I can think of a few things…” He says quietly, fingers playing with the ends of Keith’s hair, eyes lidded and irises swirling dark. His hips roll forward in a long and slow grind, and Keith’s breath stutters. “I missed you…”

Keith kisses him hard, tongue licking into his pliant mouth, groaning when Lance’s hands curl tight into his hair. He steps forward, toppling them both onto a large, soft bed, eager to lose himself in the man he loves and the man he missed so goddamn much.

* * *

“She knows,” Lance says later that night, long after they’ve exhausted themselves and they’ve caught their breath, settling into comfortable silence.

They lay in the crumpled sheets of Lance’s bed, the canopy of hanging moss falling around the four post bed shielding them from most of the room. The dim glow of twilight streams through the windows, never changing, but his body tells him that it’s late.

He lays on his back, one arm wrapped around Lance as he curls into his side, the other hand propped behind his head. Lance’s hand idly traces the knight’s brand on his chest, fingertips etching out the pointed wings that stretch beneath his collarbones. His head rests on Keith’s shoulder, tucked beneath his chin. His leg is thrown over Keith’s, tangling them together.

The cool air in Lance’s room makes goosebumps rise on his flesh, but Lance’s touch more than makes up for it. Both of them are sticky with cooling sweat, but neither of them care.

Keith hums, eyes closed, fingers idly tracing the notches on Lance’s spine. He doesn’t need to ask to know that he means Allura. “What does she know?”

“That I’m tied to you,” he says, breath tickling Keith’s chest. “Royal fey can feel the bonds they have with their chosen circle. The ones they tie to them and feed power to. She can feel that my bond to her has weakened.” He sighs, tilting his chin to run his nose along the hollow beneath Keith’s jaw. “I’ve been pulling away from her for a while. She knows I’m attached to you… how I feel… She was willing to let me have a choice.”

He trails off, and when he doesn’t continue, Keith turns his head, nosing into his snow white hair and pressing his lips to his temple. “And now…?”

“Now there is no choice. For now, we’re keeping up appearances, until the mantles are lifted, but… she can’t have me at her side when my soul is bound to yours. Even though she trusts me, the court wouldn’t allow it. I can’t be at her side when a simple word from an ironblood could have me turn against her—“

“I wouldn’t do that—“

“I know.” He shifts closer, crawling on top of Keith to lay across his chest, settled between his legs. He crosses his arms over Keith’s chest, resting his chin on them as he gazes down at him. Keith’s eyes crack open, smiling lazily as his hands slide up and down Lance’s sides. The twilight from the windows ignite his silhouette, highlighting his messy post-sex hair and beautifully flushed features. “But the court won’t trust me, and it’ll cast doubt on Allura’s leadership if she keeps me at her side.”

“So… after all of this… you have to leave…?”

Lance hums, rolling his head to the side, resting his cheek on one forearm while his other hand reaches out to push Keith’s hair back from his forehead, sliding down to play with the pointed tips of Keith’s ears.

“I’m sorry…” Keith says, but Lance merely smiles. Slow. Languid. Content. Eyes lidded, body heavy with exhaustion and magic practically tingling against Keith’s skin— calling out playfully to his own that writhes restlessly in his chest.

“It’s alright,” Lance mutters softly. “I had already decided that I would leave court to be with you, and Allura knew that, too.”

* * *

He wakes the next morning to a knock at the door. Curled around Lance as he is, holding him from behind with his arms wrapped around his waist, legs tangled in the sheets, it takes him a moment to remember where they are.

And when he does, it’s with a sinking sense of dread and reluctant defeat. He groans, burying his face in the back of Lance’s neck, arms tightening and pulling him further into his embrace.

Perhaps if they just ignore the knock, it’ll go away—

But no. It sounds again.

“It’s for you,” he grumbles, mouth moving lazily against Lance’s neck, nosing at the deep purple marks he left there the night before.

Lance sighs, loud and reluctant as he tries to get up— only to be pulled back. He chuckles softly, tapping at Keith’s arms. “If you want me to send them away, you’re going to have to let me go.”

Keith huffs, relaxing his grip and muttering a disgruntled, “Fine.”

Lance chuckles, reaching around to run his fingers through Keith’s hair before slipping out of the bed. Keith curls into the spot where Lance had been, saturated in the warmth of his skin. The moss curtain falls back into place, and Keith watches through the dangling strands as Lance idly waves a hand— a sheer robe shimmering into existence around him. It fades opaque as it settles lightly on his shoulders. He grabs the edges of it, crossing them in front of himself and crossing his arms to hold them there.

As he pads across the room, Keith watches him settle into his court persona. Watches his posture straighten and his pace grow clipped.

When he opens the door, Keith expects him to snap at whoever stands in the hall. But instead, Lance takes a step back, swinging the door open and ushering inside—

“ _Shiro_ ,” Keith breathes, sitting up immediately and scooting to the edge of the bed as the other man steps into the room, door closing behind him. Keith grabs the sheets, pausing as he’s about to throw them away— remembering that he’s naked beneath.

With a frustrated huff, he closes his eyes, concentrating as best he can while his body practically vibrates with impatience. Slowly— too slowly by his own standards. His own frustration is getting to him. Acxa would be disappointed by how long it takes to weave a simple pair of sweatpants.

When the pants settle— light and airy, as glamour usually is, but definitely solid and stable— Keith throws off the sheets and charges across the room. He throws himself at Shiro, who catches him with a waiting embrace, squeezing the life out of him and lifting his feet off the floor.

“ _Fuck_ , Shiro, I can’t _breathe_ ,” he wheezes.

Lance chuckles, already padding back across the room to push aside the moss curtain and sit on the edge of the bed. “Let him have this. The man has been worried sick for a month.”

Shiro finally sets him down, hands coming down on his shoulders. He smiles, relieved, but Keith can see the exhaustion and worry that hang heavily in his features when his court mask slips away. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Thanks to you,” Keith says with a small smile, voice hoarse from sleep and the relief that swells inside his chest, overwhelming and choking. “I couldn’t have done any of that without you, Shiro. You… you prepared me for that. Thank you.”

He frowns, lines heavy around his mouth. “I had hoped none of my training would ever be needed… but I’m glad you had it.”

“Yeah,” a breathless, humorless laugh bubbles out of him. “Me, too.”

“I nearly had a heart attack when Lance called me about what happened.”

Keith’s smile fades, brows furrowing. He grabs Shiro’s forearm, holding on tight. “What happened? You—? The shop? Adam? Pidge? Matt? Hunk—“

“They’re fine,” he says quickly, squeezing Keith’s shoulders, sighing gently— expression relaxing with relief, as if the realization of what he’s already known finally sinks in— “They’re fine. I closed the shop for now. Matt is keeping an eye on it. Him and Pidge know what’s going on, and I’m sure you’re gonna get an earful from Pidge when we get out of this. Hunk and Shay are fine, too. They’re acting as messengers between Lance and Pidge, so we can keep them all in the loop. Adam—“ Shiro’s smile falters. “He’s… I told him I need to leave for a while, and I… haven’t been back. I’ve been at the court ever since they took you.”

“Shiro—“ Keith says, frustrated and strained.

“I had no choice. With the winter knight back, Allura needed me at her side. And even if that wasn’t the case… I would have come back in case I could help you.” He sighs and looks away, hand dropping away from Keith’s shoulder to run through his hair. “I’ll… talk to Adam when this is all over. All I can do is hope he forgives me.”

“You need to tell him about all of this.”

“Keith, I _can’t_ —“

“You have to.”

“It’s dangerous—“

“Shiro.”

Another sigh. A wane smile. “Fine. I’ll think about it. Happy?”

“I’ll be happier when we can go home.”

“Yeah,” he says wistfully. “Me, too.” He reaches forward, snatching Keith up into another crushing hug. “I need to go,” he says, and Keith’s stomach sinks. “For now, I still have duties, and Allura needs me at her side to show power and strength for the court. I had just enough time to come by and say hi.”

“Well… hi.”

Shiro snorts, a genuine smile curling his lips as he steps away. “Hi.” As he walks backwards toward the door, he points sternly at Keith. “Be good. Behave yourself.”

Keith rolls his eyes, and Lance says, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Yeah, and the two of you have _never_ gotten yourselves into trouble before.” Hand on the doorknob, he pauses. “Please just… lay low until we hear from Lotor.”

“We will,” Keith promises, and Shiro nods before slipping back out into the hall, door quietly clicking shut behind him.

“ _Keeeeith_.”

Keith turns, finding Lance has fallen back onto the bed, lying on his side and stretching his arms out toward him, fingertips curling as he beckons. His glamoured robe has faded away, miles of smooth, brown skin on display and set on fire with the eternal twilight that filters through the windows.

His eyes gleam wickedly, settled above a coy smirk. “Come over here and lay low with me.”

Keith drops his own glamour on the way to the bed.

* * *

She comes to see him when Lance is away— he had been summoned by Shiro and had left very begrudgingly and not without clinging to Keith and whining about it for a full five minutes before Shiro dragged him away.

And as soon as she walks into the room after barely a warning knock, Keith suspects she might have lured Lance away on purpose.

“Princess,” Keith says, surprised, stiff, and uncertain as he starts to push himself from the window seat.

“Stay,” she says, holding up a hand, smiling when he sinks back down. “I would like to join you.” He watches her warily as she walks across the room, clothes swaying in a warm summer breeze that always seems to follow her. Her thick white hair is tied into a complex plait, pink flowers woven into it. She pauses at the window seat, tilting his head to the side. “If that’s alright?”

“I don’t see why not,” he says, nodding at the bench.

She sits gracefully, turned to face him as she leans back against one of the windowsills. Keith leans against another, elbow propped up where he had been gazing out at the summer court valley. So different from the winter court, and yet no less beautiful.

He turns his eyes back to the lake below, where the twilight ignites the waters, ripples shifting the blaze like flames. He can feel Allura’s gaze on him— heavy and considering— but he waits for her to break the silence.

It doesn’t take her long to do so.

“Lance is very dear to me,” she says, conversational and yet solemn. She doesn’t speak like a princess— not like how Lotor always sounds like he’s up to something, keeping everyone on their toes and his power laced in every word. Nor does she speak like a fey— aloof and alluding.

She speaks bluntly. Openly. Carefully, yes, but less like a fey trying to keep secrets and more like a woman who’s trying to put words to her thoughts.

She’s startlingly conversational. Surprisingly open. She speaks to him like an equal, and no fey has done that aside from Shiro, Lance, Hunk, and Shay.

He had never expected it from a _royal_.

He stares at her, eyes wide and brows furrowed, confused enough that he drops his guard and forgets his mask. He says the only thing he can think to: the truth. “I know.”

She gives a short, quick exhale. A near laugh if he’s ever heard one. There’s a twinkle of understanding in her multi-faceted gemstone eyes. Some amusement in the parts of those eyes that shimmer pink.

He’s… starting to understand why Lance has been at her side for so long. Has been her _friend_ for so long. He barely knows her, and yet he can already tell that she’s different from other fey he’s met.

“And you are very dear to him.” She looks away, eyes drifting to the windows and her realm beyond. A soft, distant smile curves her lips. “Since we were children, he spent so much of his time here in court for me. To support me. To make me happy. To make me comfortable amongst all the high fey who watch my every move. He thinks he was protecting me, but really… he was simply my friend.”

He can hear the fondness in her voice. The gentle way her face relaxes when she speaks of Lance. The kind of exasperation he’s come to recognize as loving someone as bold, and stubborn, and obnoxiously selfless as Lance. He’s seen it in Shiro. In Hunk. Has felt it himself.

She sighs. “But… I am not blind. I know he is unhappy here. I know how they treat him and what they say about him. I know how it wears on him, though he’ll never admit it.” Her lips purse into a frown, delicate brows pinching as she glares out at the lake below. On her lap, her hands curl into fists.

Keith wonders if she’s always so open with her emotions, or if she simply trusts him. And the only reason she would trust him is if that trust were an extension of her trust in Lance. Which tells him more about their bond than simple words.

“I’ve tried to get him to leave before, you know. But he wouldn’t. He refused to leave me here at court. Even now, I know he’s torn about it. I’m…” As she trails off, her eyes flicker back to Keith, and when he meets her gaze, he’s surprised to find her smiling. “I’m actually quite glad that he’s bound to you.”

“You… are?” His eyes narrow, scowling openly, suspiciously. “I thought you would be upset. You were before— when you took away my memories— you were scared that I had saved Lance’s life twice.”

She nods. “I was. I didn’t know of you, and I didn’t think we could trust you. But now… you’ve proven yourself. To Lance, to Shiro, and by extension, to me. I think… that this will be good for Lance. This lets me take his choice away. I can force him to leave the court. Because even if he feels it’s his duty to stay, his happiness lies elsewhere. And I want him to be happy.” She tilts her head, smiling a wide toothy grin, irises swirling until something dark and dangerous sparks in them. It twists her entire expression into something unnerving. Something unsettling. Something threatening. Something _fey_. “I am not as young as I was. I am no longer scared of this court and my place in it. As much as I enjoy having Lance at my side, I no longer need him. And after suffering through so much of the court’s malice, he deserves his freedom.”

There’s an intensity in her gaze that sends a ripple of instinctual fear down Keith’s spine, but he can’t look away.

“Please take care of him,” she says, though it’s not a request. It’s a demand.

“I will,” he says honestly, without a moment of hesitation.

“You have his heart.” And while she’s still almost threateningly serious, he can sense the wistful tone she tries to hide.

“And he has mine.”

“I know,” she says with a smile, far more genuine and far more warm. She chuckles, and the remnants of the terrifying royal fey persona fade. “I knew years ago, and I’m glad that hasn’t changed.”

He finds himself smiling, unable to help it with Lance as a subject. “Me, too.”

Silence settles over the room. Strangely comfortable, given the differences between them. They’ve been brought together by common affection for Lance, and Keith can feel an odd and unexpected sort of contentment woven into this moment. It’s… strange, but not unwelcome.

Allura’s eyes drift over the room, settling on a small table in the corner, atop which sits a familiar game board. She nods to it. “Do you play?”

Keith’s gaze follows hers, lips pursing. “I… know how.”

“Care to pass the time?”

He glances at her. Sees the toothy smile and challenge glinting in her eyes. He finds himself shrugging. “Sure. Why not?”

When Lance returns later, he’s surprised to find Allura there. Unsurprising, however, is the win streak under her belt and the disgruntled scowl Keith wears. Lance merely chuckles, running his hand soothingly through Keith’s hair before taking a seat, right there on his lap.

Keith’s arms warp around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder as he watches Lance give the princess a run for her money.

* * *

While he’s eager to have everything be over, Keith does enjoy his time alone with Lance. Hidden away in the confines of Lance’s room. A burrow of privacy within the court. Nestled in with low ceilings, beautiful plants, and lush fabrics. Surrounded by magic and each other.

With Lance here, far from the eyes of watchful fey, without the overhanging worry over his knight duties, Keith has actually come to enjoy the faerie realm. The magic buzzing in the air like static. How Lance looks here, without his glamour, beautiful in his full glory.

Lance’s room has a bathroom attached, with a pool-like pond of a bathtub sunken into the floor, lined with smooth river stones. Keith lounges in it, enjoying the scent of wildflowers and honey from the oils Lance had dropped into the water, using his magic to heat it until Keith’s muscles relax and steam wafts through the room.

He leans back against the edge, sitting on a stone bench within. Arms laid out across the lip of he pool, legs spread wide beneath the waters. He watches Lance across the room, sitting in front of a vanity carved from stone vines, holding a mirror lined with flowers. He does some sort of routine with practiced, graceful motions. Using a variety of creams and scrubs.

And when he’s finally finished and stands, turning to face Keith, his silken glamoured robe fades away.

He steps toward the pool with slow, measured steps. Graceful as always. Lean muscles shifting and flexing beneath the expanse of smooth, tan skin. Broad shoulders. A narrow waist. Legs that go on for days and hold onto Keith’s hips with a crushing strength.

The curl of interest that gathers low is hot and heady. Keith’s eyes lidded and dark as he watches Lance step into the water, slowly sinking into the depths. He holds Keith’s gaze, a smirk curving his lips. He’s shameless in his hunger and desire, knowing _exactly_ what he does to Keith.

When Lance reaches him, he straddles his lap, knees bracketing his hips as he settles atop Keith’s thighs. His hands— long, slender, attentive fingers— start at his stomach, making their way teasingly— agonizingly slowly— up the expanse of Keith’s chest. Sliding over his shoulders as he leans forward, pressing their bodies flush as his arms wrap around him, hands settling in his hair.

Keith’s hands slip beneath the water, rubbing Lance’s legs from thigh to hips, up to his waist, around to his ass, and back again.

Lance hums, tilting his head, aligning their mouths without closing the distance. His gaze, however, is fixated just to Keith’s left, his fingers idly tracing along the pointed edges of Keith’s ear tip and lobe.

Keith searches his face— the open curiosity and childlike wonder.

“Is it strange?” He asks, voice hushed and hoarse, whispered between them. Lance’s eyes flicker to his, understanding passing between them. He knows that Keith doesn’t just mean his ears.

Lance hums thoughtfully. “I thought it would be…” His fingers slide from Keith’s ear and into his hair, pulling forward the magenta strands, letting them slide through his grip. His hand then moves to cup Keith’s jaw, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. He smiles with agonizing fondness that makes Keith’s heart squeeze and steals the breath from his lungs. “But… you’re still you. You still look like _you_. Do I look strange?”

“No,” he breathes, leaning forward to rub his nose against Lance’s. mouths teasingly close, lips parted. “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Lance holds him gently as he leans in to kiss him. To slot their lips together and push his tongue into Keith’s waiting mouth. To explore and claim, languid and slow. Taking his time to memorize, to taste, to make Keith feel _everything_ — every ounce of tender affection and longing and aching desperation.

Keith’s short claws dig into Lance’s hips as they start to move. As he begins a slow grind. Leaning into Keith’s chest— fallen forward into their embrace— arms wrapping around his shoulders to hold on and Keith takes charge of their pace.

Water splashes from the pool, spilling out across the stone tiles of Lance’s bathroom.

Neither of them mind.

And when Keith presses into Lance— into that heated, tight, intimate embrace— Lance’s body arching prettily and fingers tightening in his hair— the gasp he makes sounds like desperation— like pleasure— like relief that resonates deep within his body, heart, and soul—

It sounds like music in the fey twilight.

* * *

They hear news of the winter king’s death before they hear word from Lotor.

The winter king, who has been locked away for years, in a suspected coma, while his queen ran the winter court. He had already faded from court life long before his death, never truly relevant enough for the people to care, and never needed with the first hold his queen had on their lands.

Still, the tyranny of his rule still held the fey realm in a vice. The prophecy that said a half blood would be his fall was a thorn in his side he sought to eradicate, until all half bloods carried a brand in their blood that causes suspicion, wariness, and hate where ever they went.

Without the queen to guard him in his vulnerable state— whatever state that might have been— he was left defenseless.

By then, word had spread across the realm that the queen had been felled by the winter knight— an ironblood who had snuck into the court to assassinate her.

Gossip has it that the people blame Keith for the king’s death, too. Indirect as it might be, fey prophecies are rarely straight forward, and they believe that he’s the half blood who caused the king’s final fall.

Perhaps, in a way, he is. He did, after all, rid the king of his only defense.

But when they finally get word from Lotor about meeting them to complete their deal, it’s accompanied with an offhanded comment that he was able to deal with his father.

And they know that Keith isn’t the half blood who felled the winter king.

* * *

They meet Lotor in the wild lands. Atop a craggy hillside. Not a tree in tight. Thick moss-like grass covers the ground, oozing moisture with every step. Rocks and gravel cut through the landscape, tears in the greenery. Fog hangs low, obscuring their vision.

Keith walks with the summer envoy. Allura leads the way, head held high and regal. Flanked by her three most trusted advisors: Romelle, Lance, and an eccentric older fey called Coran. Keith and Shiro follow behind, trailed after by a couple of Allura’s royal guard.

As they approach the tallest hill, they can see the figures in the fog.

Lotor awaits them, his generals fanned out behind him. His gaze is locked on Allura as they approach, smile easy and shark-like, practically oozing excitement and smug pride. It’s unnerving in the way most fey are, but Keith can recognize more childish glee radiating from him than malice.

He makes brief eye contact with Acxa, offering a small nod that’s returned.

“Princess,” Lotor says as they approach, falling into a low, respectful bow. “It is a pleasure, as always, to be graced with your presence.” He straightens, grin widening. “I do look forward to doing more business with you in the future. After all,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Now that I am the winter king, there are many knots woven between our courts that I would like to disentangle.”

Allura regards him coolly, her mask of indifference pristine and smooth as porcelain, giving nothing away. Her eyes as hard and reflective as glass. She looks him up and down for a moment, appraising him silently. To his credit, he doesn’t fidget under her stare.

Finally, she nods. “We have many things to discuss for the future of our realm, but everything has a time and place. Let us begin with fulfilling our deal.” She lifts a hand, making a general, graceful wave of her fingers. Shiro starts walking forward, and Keith follows him a second later.

The rest of the fey from the two parties stand in half circles around them, and Shiro and Keith take their places in front of the summer princess and winter king. Shiro lets his glamoured tunic fade, exposing his chest, and Keith follows his lead.

They stand side by side, the twin winged seven pointed star brand blazoned across their chests.

Lotor holds a hand out to Allura. “Our first step toward a more unified future will be to dismantle the weapons our courts use against one another.”

She takes his hand, setting hers delicately in his palm. She then turns to Shiro, placing her other hand flat against his chest, over the star. Lotor does the same, towering over Keith and placing his large hand against his chest. His palm is cold to the touch.

“Knight,” Lotor and Allura say together, voices clipped, loud, and formal. “I hereby strip you of the mantle of power bestowed upon your blood by my ancestors. I hereby relieve you of your duties. With the authority of my royal blood, I hereby dissolve the power of the knight’s mantle.”

A wind picks up, and the fog grows thick.

Allura and Lotor’s eyes begin to glow, pulsing with white light that overtakes everything.

A spark between their joined hands, igniting down their arms— a white light that follows the path of their veins, glowing beneath the skin— hairline fractures across their flesh— up one arm, across their chests and up their necks— down the other arm to their hands pressed to Keith and Shiro’s chests—

It— _burns_.

It burns like ice, far too cold and far too overwhelming, searing across Keith’s chest in a wave of blinding pain— it triggers a memory— the burning of the brand so long ago when it had inked itself across his flesh and sunken into his veins—

He stiffens, jaw clamping shut against a wordless shout—

And then a hand touches his— _Shiro’s_ — he’s not sure they’re supposed to hold hands— is pretty sure that it’s not good decorum— but Keith doesn’t give a fuck. He grabs at Shiro’s hand and squeezes, until both their knuckles are white— but the pain in his hand is grounding, and using Shiro as an anchor, he shuts his eyes tight and weathers through the storm of agony.

It lasts for an eternity.

It lasts for a single second.

The pain never ceases.

And yet it’s over in a breath.

As Lotor’s hand pulls away, Keith falls to his knees, and beside him, he feels Shiro hit the ground as well. But he lets go of his hand, fallen forward on hands and knees, head bowed forward as he pants— breaths raspy and shallow— swallowing thick around the echo of pain that still resonates in his chest, nerves on fire, limbs shaking—

A rush of cold wind, and suddenly there’s a warm hand cupping his chin. Gently but firmly lifting his head— until he’s met with the prettiest blue eyes he’s ever seen and a smile that could rival the moon.

“Lance,” he breathes, voice hoarse.

“Oh, Keith,” Lance whispers, hands grabbing to drag him forward.

Keith falls into his embrace, willingly and wholly. Sighs as strong arms wrap around him. He buries his face in the crook of Lance’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of summer rain as he loops his arms around Lance’s waist.

“Is it over?” He asks, lips pressed against Lance’s skin.

“No.” Lance’s voice is thick with tears, broken as a laugh bubbles out of him. “Our lives are just beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your comments. I love hearing from you and hearing what you think and like <33 I don't have the mental stamina to respond to them, but they dO mean the world to me. They brighten my day, as I hope this fic brightens yours. I appreciate each and every once of you <33
> 
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>  **DO NOT** repost this fic anywhere. This means _you_ wattpad users.  
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> I'm most active on twitter. More info in my pinned tweet <33 To learn more about this story, me, and my writing, please visit my social media!
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	11. Never Love Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is no longer the Winter Knight. Lance is no longer a Gentleman of the Summer Court. Keith is no longer in danger of being hunted, and Lance is no longer tied to Allura. 
> 
> Their struggles with the courts are over, but their lives together are only beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Epilogue" implies an ending. I don't like thinking of this chapter as an epilogue. I see it as a beginning. The start of their lives together in the aftermath of their struggles. Snap shots of them as they settle into their life together.
> 
> Thank you everyone for joining me on this journey. This has been my favorite au to date, and I poured a lot of love, planning, and care into this story. I hope it brought you joy <33
> 
> The beautiful banner art here is by [@Pussycat_tweets](https://twitter.com/pussycat_tweets). She did an absolutely AMAZING job capturing the atmosphere of this story. Please head on over to her twitter and give her a follow and share her art! (and do NOT repost it, share from her socials)

Their home is one they’ve built together. Of man-make and faerie magic. Foundation sung into shape from the earth itself, trees twisting together to build the structure sound. Fitted together with materials bought from a store and nailed into place with Keith’s own hands.

Nestled on the border lands between realms. Where the human world presses up against a thin veil and the wild lands creep into the land of mortals. Right on the cusp of a forest where mankind might accidentally wander into the realm of the fey.

A place where they’re safe within the mortal realm. Where time runs as Keith is used to, with the sun and moon moving in a predictable rhythm across the sky. A place where human technology works. Where they’ve bought a plot of land and exist by all human rights.

But also a place where they feel the faint essence of magic in the air. Vibrating on the wind and humming in their veins. A place where twilight seems to last longer than it should, bringing with it a strange sort of bliss and peace.

A place of both worlds and neither. Where Keith doesn’t have to choose between the land he grew up in and the blood his mother gave him. Where Lance doesn’t have to sacrifice everything he’s ever known to explore the realm of humans.

Where their friends— human, fey, and everything in-between— can come together.

Their home is far from prying eyes. A long gravel drive that twists through a canopy of trees that shelter their home from view. A large yard that Kosmo can run and blink in. Wards and charms of fey make hang from the trees— woven into the branches, carved into the trees— keeping stray wanderers, both human and fey, away.

Allowing them privacy. Allowing them to be themselves.

Once their mantels had been removed, both Keith and Shiro had been sent away from the courts, their duties done. Both of them went gladly, and spent several uncertain and worrisome days in their old home before Lance joined them.

Lance had been officially released from his title of suitor. Allura removed him as one of her favorites, and sent him from court honorably. Lance never gave him many details, but he said it was a lot of pomp and circumstance to ensure that his family wouldn’t be disgraced.

No one beside Allura’s most trusted knew that Lance’s soul was indebted to Keith.

For the first time in many years, Lance was a free fey. A wild fey once more. No longer tied to the courts and able to fully move into the human realm.

It wasn’t a question of whether or not Lance would stay with Keith, but things weren’t the same.

 _They_ weren’t the same.

And so they moved forward.

They kept Keith and Shiro’s old home while they build their new one. Their friends helped— Matt and Pidge, Hunk and Shay. Shiro, Krolia, and the Marmora clan. Together they built a new home. A new start.

They chose to stay close to the city where Keith and Shiro had set down their roots. Where Shiro had his tattoo parlor. Where Hunk and Shay had their businesses. Where Pidge and Matt lived. Close, but not within the city. On the outskirts. Where they could commute in but otherwise live apart.

They’re wary, of course. Millenia of prejudice against ironbloods doesn’t go away easily, even if the responsible king and queen are gone. Despite both Lotor and Allura setting down laws to protect them, commanding their people to leave both him and Lance alone— to leave _all_ ironbloods alone— Keith is still cautious.

But… as they move into their new home— him, Lance, and Kosmo— Keith feels… at peace.

Their home is a place where they no longer have to fear. Not of the courts. Not of the fey. Where they can embrace their mingled heritage and chosen lifestyle.

Their home is safe. They are free. It’s a _home_. And that’s more than either of them have ever had.

* * *

Keith lays in his bed— _their_ bed— as the amber light of sunset peers through their windows, igniting their walls in flames before fading to the soft dusk of twilight.

His eyes are closed, body bare beneath the soft silken sheets— a luxury Lance had absolutely insisted on. Lance is pressed up against him, smooth skin warm where he presses flush to Keith’s side. Legs tangled. Breaths even and warm, soft as a whisper with every rise and fall of their chests.

Kosmo curls up at his other side, his large head a comforting weight on Keith’s stomach. One of his hands is buried in his wolf’s fur, idly scratching behind his ears. His other arm wraps around Lance, keeping him secure at his side.

Neither of them wear their glamour.

Keith found that after returning to the mortal realm, his body had remained in the same half-fey state. However, holding his glamour to appear human is easier here. Like muscle memory of body and mind.

Still, they’ve gotten gotten into the habit of letting it fade away when they’re home together. Keith has come to enjoy the sight of their fey forms together. Lance’s snow white hair spilling out over his lavender skin. Lance’s fingers tracing the pointed tips of his ears. His clawed thumbs lightly caressing the glowing blue marks beneath Lance’s eyes and mapping his white freckles.

He loves that they can be themselves with no barriers between them.

It’s peaceful.

It’s perfect.

The air is crisp but their bodies are warm. It smells of home.

Lance’s head rests on his chest, his soft hair tickling Keith’s collarbones. His fingers lightly trace the tattoo on Keith’s forearm. A gentle fingernail following the outline of the dagger Keith had drawn so long ago. The mirror of what lie beneath the surface. He idly rubs the symbol of Keith’s birthmark, drawn into the gemstone of the dagger’s hilt. He lovingly caresses the bed of flowers the dagger lays in, wrapping around Keith’s arm.

Roses and forget-me-nots.

At the time, years ago, Keith hadn’t known why he had chosen those flowers. When he designed the tattoo to cover and accentuate his birthmark, he knew he wanted flowers, and when he imagined the design, he couldn’t shake the thought of those two.

Red and blue.

Two flowers that symbolize love, passionate and true.

Even when his memories had been buried and locked away from him, he could never forget Lance. Not really. Not wholly.

And the meaning of those flowers tattooed on his arm, from a time before Lance had come back to him, isn’t lost on the man as he lifts Keith’s arm to press his lips to the ink.

“I think..." He whispers, breath warm against Keith’s skin, lips brushing against his flesh. Keith shivers, and he knows that Lance can hear the way his heart skips. “I want a tattoo. A _human_ tattoo. The ones that you do.”

Keith glances down at him, one brow raised. “Really?” Lance nods, turning his head to nuzzle against Keith’s chest. “Of what? And where?”

“Not sure. Don’t really care.” He props his chin up on Keith’s chest, looking at him with a lazy smile stretching his lips. “You decide. I trust you.” His fingertips lightly trace Keith’s collarbones, lingering on the dark bruises he had left there with his own lips and teeth. “I just want your mark on me. Permanently. Visibly.”

Keith chuckles softly, catching Lance’s hand and lifting it to press his lips to his knuckles. “First you become obsessed with human technology. Then you insist on wearing human clothes. Now you want permanent mortal ink. You’re becoming more domesticated by the day.”

Lance hums thoughtfully, smile twitching wider. “I was born a mixed fey. Raised as a wild fey. Lived as a court fey. I supposed being a domesticated fey is next on the list.”

* * *

Most of the time, Keith doesn’t notice his connection to Lance. All those subtle little ways their souls are woven together. All the little intricacies of how they hold a piece of each other’s core.

He notices it most when they’re apart. He notices the emptiness that Lance leaves. The vacuum in his chest that’s tied to something far away.

And he notices when that presence gets closer.

He feels Lance long before he arrives. Even while he’s hunched over his client’s arm, eyes focused on the stencil he’s painstakingly outlining. Hand vibrating with the tattoo gun and his other making sure the skin is taut before wiping away ink every few swipes.

He feels the warmth pooling in his chest. Like the line connecting them being reeled in. Coiling in Keith’s heart and sending out a humming buzz of anticipation that crawls through his veins. It’s a tingle in the back of his mind, not obtrusive but definitely noticeable. It’s a twitch of awareness, his ears focusing in for any sign even when his eyes can’t join in.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until the door swings open, bringing with it a rush of cool air and a jingle of the brass bell above—

“Morning, Pidgeon!”

—And his breath comes out with a sigh, lips pulling into a small smile.

“It’s three in the afternoon, Lance,” Pidge says in a flat monotone.

Lance huffs, and Keith can practically hear the roll of his eyes. “Do you want some of Shay’s coffee or not?”

“You brought us Shay’s?” Pidge’s tune changes instantly, eager and awed. “Gimme!”

“Ah-bub-bub! What do you say?”

“Please and thank you, my all mighty lord, savior, and hero?”

“I’ll take it,” he says with a chuckle. “Shiro in the back?”

“Yup. Doing finances so he’ll probably appreciate the pick-me-up.”

Keith listens to Lance’s footsteps as he moves through the parlor, headed toward the back and stepping into Shiro’s office after only a soft knock. Moments later, he steps up to Keith’s side. While he brings with him a familiar chill— sending ripples of goosebumps prickling along Keith’s exposed arms— the presence next to him is a warm pulse in his chest.

“Hey, babe,” he says softly, as if trying not to startle or distract. Cute, really, that he thinks Keith might be able to ignore his presence enough to be startled in the first place.

“Hey,” he hums, lifting the gun from flesh and lifting his foot off the pedal. He wipes down the half finished outline and leans back, tilting his head to look at it critically.

“I got your favorite,” he says, reaching behind him to set the coffee cup on his station, far away from the inks that are laid out. “Just gonna set it here.”

Fingers brush along his shoulders, dipping into his hair to scratch against his scalp. He hums softly, leaning into the touch. “Thanks.”

Lance leans over his shoulder, appreciating his work. “Looks good.” He can hear the smile in his voice, especially when he turns it up a notch to address his client. “You’re lucky, ma’am. You came to the best of the best. It’s going to look great.”

“I hope so,” she says lightly. “We’re already halfway done.”

Lance chuckles, carding his fingers through Keith’s hair one last time before giving his shoulder a squeeze. “No worries. This one has never had an unsatisfied customer.”

Keith huffs softly, shrugging off Lance’s— distracting— hand and elbowing his hip. “Go sit with Pidge. You know the rule. No bothering me while I’m working.”

He laughs softly, already dancing away from Keith’s elbow on light, graceful feet. “Alright, alright. I’m going. Hunk asked for my help at the restaurant anyway. I’ll see you at home?”

Keith nods, glancing over his shoulder to briefly meet the eye of the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. He wakes to that face every morning. Falls asleep to it every night. And yet it still takes his breath away.

“Yeah,” he says, chest tight. “See you at home.”

Lance’s smile is soft. Knowing. Fond. A mischievous and playful glint in his eyes that speaks of his fey nature. Oh so pleased by how much he can make Keith squirm by doing absolutely nothing.

“Was that your boyfriend?” His client asks once Lance has left and he’s gone back to work.

“Something like that,” Keith mutters.

“Ooo, _more_ than a boyfriend, then?”

Keith glances up at her, a small smile tugging at his lips as he repeats, “Something like that.”

Boyfriend. Lover. Partner. Fiancé. Husband. None of the typical human words sound like _enough_. They don’t fully encompass what Lance is to him. How intimately their fates have been woven. How intertwined their hearts are. How closely bound they are by their history together and the experiences they’ve shared.

Keith looks back down to the tattoo he’s working on, setting the tip of the gun back to flesh. “Soulmate,” he says softly, voice barely audible over the buzz of the gun. “I think soulmate is a better word.”

* * *

While he’s gotten used to it, walking through a faerie ring is never not strange.

From the moment he steps into the rippling veil between realms, his vision blurs. Dots dancing and white light creeping, mingling and overlapping the mortal forest he leaves and the fey forest he’s walking into. He often closes his eyes, just to help with the dizziness.

Pressure pushes in on him, squeezing him tight and setting all his nerves on _fire_ without heat nor cold, pleasure nor pain. Mere _pressure_ , compounding in on him. Even as the air grows thinner, making his lungs strain and giving him the sensation of floating— drifting—

And then the tug. The strange feeling of something outside his control grabbing invisible strings and _yanking_ him through time and space—

Until he stumbles out of another ring, into a forest that bleeds magic and sings a silent song that calls to his soul.

Krolia is waiting for him as he and Kosmo step through the ring, shifting out of the shadows to approach him as he takes a moment to gather his bearings. Kosmo leans into his side, silent support as Keith’s hands idly trail through his fur. Blinking with his wolf is disorienting, but it’s nothing compared to walking between realms.

“Lance is not with you?” She says it like a statement but lifts the end like a question.

“He’s visiting with Allura and Romelle at court. Nothing official,” he adds at her dubious look. “Just… as old friends. I figured… this could be something we do together. Just us.”

Her smile is small, but he sees it. A mirror of his own. Not a smile that brightens her face— like Lance’s smiles— but one that’s much more subtle. One that simmers across her features and brings the light slowly. Like the rising dawn.

They both crouch down with Kosmo, arms wrapping around his body— the wolf has grown larger still, and while it’s slow, Keith wonders how big he’ll get— and digging their fingers into his fur. He meets Krolia’s eyes, both of them unblinking and sparking with the sharp intelligence of the fey.

A moment later, his stomach is tilting as they blink, cold pressing in on him from all sides— weightless and breathless in the span between seconds— before they land once more on solid ground.

“This is it,” Krolia says with absolute certainty as she stands, facing a small faerie ring, not unlike the one Keith had just come through. Both small and unassuming, marked by the flat stones and toadstools that formed a circle atop a short mound.

But that one had been the one closest to Keith’s home. This one— a quick blink across the wild lands in the faerie realm— led to the town where Keith had grown up.

The town where his father was buried.

Where he had met Lance all those years ago.

They step through, and Keith holds his breath against the numbing pressure and overwhelming feeling of falling— floating— displacement—

When he stumbles out, the air feels… drier. No longer saturated with magic and buzzing with life. The trees look duller, and the forest feels hollow. The mortal realm always seems stale whenever he comes from the fey realm, and yet it brings with it a sense of comfort and familiarity.

When he looks back at the faerie ring, he’s… caught up in a sense of nostalgia. He’s visited this one before, though not often. He does, however, have a picture of it. Captured on an old polaroid that’s been locked away in a metal box for years. A picture he took one time after Lance had left.

His first faerie ring. And though he’s never stepped through it before, it’s wrapped up in memories of his youth and young infatuation with Lance.

It brings the ghost of a smile to his lips as he turns away— and startles as he’s faced with Krolia.

Because she— she looks like his mother.

She _is_ his mother, but all he’s known of her in his adult life is her fey form. The violet skin and duel pointed ears. The purple and magenta hair. The golden sclera. The markings cutting up to the apples of her cheeks. He’s grown used to it all. Used to seeing her fey form as his mother. She’s never bothered to glamour herself when she’s visited or helped him build his house with Lance. She’s never had a need to, as they always stayed on his property in the mortal realm.

But… But here, she’s glamoured herself.

Pale skin, so much like his own. Human eyes, but irises that sparkle and dance in shades of indigo and violet. Gone are her facial marks, the inhuman sharpness of her features, and the strange disproportionately long limbs that some fey tend to have. Her ears are rounded beneath her mop of black hair.

She’s still tall and broad, strong and powerful, but she looks so incredibly _human_. Even with the faint shimmer he can see of her glamour.

She looks… She looks like the woman he has polaroids of. Old pictures that his father had of them. The pictures he grew up with and kept as the only evidence of his parents. Of them together. Of them holding Keith as a baby. Keith always knew she was a fey, but he grew up with a scant few pictures of her looking human.

And she looks like that now.

“M-Mom?” He breathes, feeling shocked and untethered, unable to feel an ounce of shame when his voice cracks.

She smiles, wider than before, kindness and understanding shimmering in her eyes, a softness settling on her features that he recognizes from the pictures. “Come,” she says, holding out a hand that he takes without thought. She squeezes his fingers. “Show me where they buried him.”

It’s been a long time since Keith was a child. He was forced to grow up quickly. Only relying on and trusting himself until he had Shiro. He’s learned how to walk proudly, resolutely, and with a confidence that he doesn’t necessarily feel. And yet as he walks out of the forest and through the small town, hand-in-hand with his mother, with his dog at his side, Keith feels… small.

And it doesn’t feel bad. He feels _safe_. He feels… content. At peace. Gone is that tangled knot of festering loneliness that he’s felt for most of his life. Leaving him feeling… freer, lighter, and able to breathe.

He feels… grounded.

If only he could go back to his thirteen year old self and assure him that in the future, he won’t be alone.

“I wish I could have stayed here…” Krolia says, voice muted and soft in awe, features heavy in nostalgia as she watches the town pass while they walk.

“Why didn’t you?” Keith asks, though he already knows the answer. He’s not an idiot, and as an adult, he knows why his mom had to leave. But there was a still a child inside of him— crying out in pain and anguish— demanding to hear her say it.

“It was one thing to stay when I fell in love with a human. It’s not uncommon for fey to become… infatuated and domesticated. Few would have looked at us twice or bothered to learn the depth of my attachment. But… when we had you…” She sighs, shaking her head.

She squeezes his hand, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s not for _his_ comfort, but her own. When he glances up at her, her eyes are shimmering in the late afternoon light. She scowls, as if that might threaten the unshed tears enough to keep them at bay. It’s amusing, really, to see himself mirrored so much in her.

“With how the courts are— _were_ — you weren’t safe with me around. If any fey saw me with a child… they would know you as an ironblood. Merely being around you put both you and your father at risk, and I— I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, let alone being the cause of it.”

She takes a shaky breath, and Keith squeezes her fingers, being a tether for her.

“The Marmora clan has been part of the resistance for long before I was born. I was one of them before I met your father. After you were born… I went back. I was determined to end Zarkon’s reign for _you_. To keep you safe. To create a world where we could be together.” A wry smile tugs at her lips, her tears easing away in the wake of her pride. “I could never have predicted that my son would have been the one to free himself. To free _all_ of us.”

They lapse into silence, thoughts and words lodging in his throat, unable to reach his tongue. They reach the cemetery, and Keith walks Krolia to his father’s gravestone. By the time they reach it, both of them standing before the withered marker, Kosmo sitting at his side… he manages to untangle the knot in his chest enough to say, “I forgive you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her turn to him, but he keeps his gaze on the etching of his father’s name.

He takes a deep breath, squeezing her hand once more as he repeats, “I forgive you. I… I don’t think I would have been able to year ago, but… after everything that’s happened… I understand. It hurts, and honestly, my childhood sucked, but… I understand.” He turns to look at her then, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

She pulls him into a hug, encompassing him in her arms and crushing him to her chest. He falls into it, holding her tight and burying his face in her neck. And there, wrapped in her warmth and the safety she provides… he lets himself cry, silent and aching.

She holds him through it, humming a soft melody under her breath, rocking back and forth as she rests her cheek atop his head.

“How did it happen?” She asks once he’s calmed down, when his ragged breathes become even and his shaking has stopped. Her breath whispers across his hair, easing into the silence with a nervous apprehension.

“He went into a burning building to save a family who had been trapped. He got them out, but it collapsed before he could—“ He chokes, throat closing up with a quiet sob. It’s been a long time since he’s cried for his dad, but… here, with his mom… he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed or ashamed.

She hums in understanding, hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. “He was always like that,” she says thoughtfully. “Selfless to a fault. Always putting others before himself. We met when I was being chased by winter court fey. A mission had gone wrong, and we were being hunted. I was wounded when I came through the faerie ring, hoping I could hide in the mortal realm. I was too weak to hold up my glamour when he found me, and yet he never flinched away. He nursed me back to health before he even bothered to question why I looked so… inhuman. And when I told him that he was in danger for helping me, he didn’t seem to care. Infuriatingly flippant about it, really. Endearingly so…”

Keith smiles against her shoulder, a broken laugh escaping his lips. “Yeah… Yeah, that sounds like dad.”

They spend the rest of the day at the cemetery, sitting on the grass in front of his father’s grave. They talk to each other, sharing stories and memories of him. Krolia tells him how they fell in love. Keith tells her about his childhood. Then they both tell his dad about everything that’s happened.

About Krolia’s time away from them and her fight. About Lance. About Shiro. About Keith’s life as an adult. About how they brought down Zarkon’s reign, and how they’re now free and reunited.

They talk until the sun is low on the horizon, casting shades of fire across the field of headstones.

And when Keith finally stands to leave, Krolia crouches before the stone. She sets her palm to the ground, grass threading between her outstretched fingers. Then she closes her eyes, humming a gentle melody that Keith recognizes as his father’s favorite song.

He feels the magic being woven in the air. A faint vibration dancing teasingly across his skin. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees fireflies bobbing and flitting along with the song, but when he looks, they disappear.

And slowly, flowers begin to bloom. Around his mother’s hand, sprouting up between her fingers, stalks rising, buds unfurling, bringing bursts of color as petals spiral into existence. They spread outward, forming a thick bed beneath her palm— surrounding his father’s grave— crawling up around his headstone like a natural wreath.

All different colors. All different shapes and sizes. Some that he recognizes, but not enough that he knows the names that go along with them.

Far more than a simple forget-me-not or budding sunflower.

His mother gives his father a haphazard, wild, _garden_.

“What is that?” Keith asks when she’s done, standing and stepping back to admire her work. When she glances at him, his brows furrow. “Lance… leaves me flowers, too. And Acxa said that her lover does the same. Is it a fey thing?”

Krolia smiles, small and cryptic. “It is.” She hums thoughtfully as she looks back to the flower bed. It’s a spot of bright vibrance— of _magic_ — within the cemetery. “Our emotions influence our magic, and when we feel something overwhelming… it tends to manifest.”

“In flowers?”

She nods, stepping forward to gently run her fingertips along the top of the headstone, caressing the petals of a white mum. “In flowers. They all have meanings, and they hold our emotions. The flowers never wilt as long as those feelings remain true.”

“Dad used to have a bouquet of white mums in the kitchen… I don’t remember them ever wilting.”

She smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And they never will.”

“This… is a lot of flowers.”

She releases a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I have a lot of emotions when it comes to your father.”

“What do they all mean?”

She looks at him then, mischief in her eyes and a small smile on her lips. “That… is between your father and I.”

* * *

Keith waits for him by the faerie ring.

Where he once would have never stood so blatantly out in the open, he now stands on the main path leading down from the little mound, arms crossed casually over his chest as he leans back against a tree. Kosmo runs through the woods nearby— all Keith needs to do is whistle and he’d be there in a blink— chasing animals and sniffing around his territory.

Because that’s exactly what this is. _Their_ territory. This land in the mortal realm and this particular faerie ring. It had been specifically created by Allura, who had used her magic to tear a small hole between the human realm and a hidden corner of the wild lands.

They had been allowed to pick the location, both here and in the fey realm. Their own personal faerie ring, close enough to be of use and far enough away from their home to be safe.

Of course, other fey— and humans for that matter— could easily wander through, but as it’s new, few know of it.

Perhaps that’s why Keith feels at ease here, out in the open, waiting for Lance to return.

Or perhaps it’s because he’s faced his fear of the fey, and he knows without a doubt that he can hold his own.

After all, he felled the winter queen, and most fey know it by now. He’s recognizable by both courts, feared by many, and few would dare to do him harm.

He feels the tug in his chest— the skip of his heart and surge of prickling warmth in his veins— before he feels the static from the ring of stones atop the grassy mound. A crackling of magic, snapping and popping, the air shimmering and bending as Lance fades into existence.

As he solidifies into the mortal realm, he pauses, closing his eyes briefly and shaking out his arms. His glamour shifts and shines, morphing from more fanciful fey fashion to something more… casual, human, and low-key. Keith knows that as soon as he’s home, he’ll change into physical clothes.

Keith prefers real clothes to his glamour. It’s comforting, familiar, and requires far less concentration. Lance _also_ prefers human clothes, despite his upbringing and how he wields his glamour as easily as he breathes. He likes the weight of them. The feel of them. How they hug his body and ground him to this realm.

Once he opens his eyes, their gazes lock, and his whole face lights up, a wide grin stretching across his lips. “Keith!” His breathless excitement is something Keith will never tire of. It makes his stomach swoop and his heart stutter as Lance barrels down the mound and throws himself bodily at Keith.

He catches him easily, wrapping him up in his arms and smiling as Lance grabs his face with both hands, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s hard and firm, crushing their mouths together in uncoordinated passion… that melts into something softer as they both sigh.

Keith’s arms slide around Lance’s waist, and Lance’s hands ease into his hair. Their heads tilt, tongues lazy and languid as their lips linger. Lance tastes like rain and honey, with a crackle of cinnamon that bites at the back of Keith’s tongue as he breathes him in.

“You’re here,” Lance says, mouth moving against Keith’s, leaning back just far enough to open his eyes.

Keith shrugs, eyes still closed and humming as Lance’s finger tangle in his hair. “Missed you.”

Lance gives a soft snort, a huff of laughter that’s equal parts amused and incredulous. “I wasn’t gone long.” He ducks down, nuzzling into Keith’s neck, his nose trailing along his throat. Keith can feel his smile. “But you’re sweet.”

“Did you manage to get it?”

Lance nods, rubbing his cheek against Keith’s collarbones. He pulls a hand from Keith’s hair to pat a satchel hanging at his hip. “Yup. Allura wasn’t… enthusiastic about it, but we expected her to be cautious. I’m surprised she agreed at all, but I suppose that either means I’m exceedingly charming and persuasive, or she just trusts us that much.”

Keith smiles against Lance’s hair, inhaling the linger scent of thunderstorms and bonfires on beaches. “Fey don’t trust anyone.”

“Guess that means I’m exceedingly charming.”

“Guess so.”

Lance pulls away from him, though not without reluctance. He tangles their fingers together, walking backwards down the path with a coy smile on his lips as he tugs Keith along. “Let’s go home. You can show me just how much you missed me.” He winks, and warmth surges down to Keith’s gut.

As they head back down the path, Kosmo rushing along in the trees to keep pace, Keith glances back at the faerie ring, though he’s not sure if it’s out of habit or caution. However, it’s not the faerie ring that ends up catching his eye.

His gaze lands on a single red rose blooming from the ground where he had just been standing, thorned vines snaking across the grass.

He smiles and turns back to head home.

* * *

The rattling buzz of the tattoo gun is hypnotic white noise. The vibrations that hum up his arm are comforting. The gentle give of flesh beneath the needle is familiar. The rhythm of painting a segment with ink then wiping it away before setting to the stencil once more is grounding.

Keith is in his element.

Sitting in his familiar chair, hunched over a piece of art that he watches slowly come to life beneath his hands and gentle ministrations. There’s an ache in his back and a kink in his neck, but he doesn’t mind. The smell of leather and ink fills his nose. The AC vent blows right on the back of his neck, cooling the sweat that prickles between his shoulder blades.

Inside his chest, Keith’s magic _blooms_.

A flower of fire and energy, unraveled and blazing. Tendrils oozing power through his veins, until his blood is alive with it. Until he can feel it circulating through every inch of his body. It’s warm, and where it had once been unnerving to let it thrive so fully, he now finds a comfort in it.

He feels whole. Complete. Stable. In control.

He feels like he can breathe.

Concentrating on his magic falls to second nature, as lost in his muscle memory as the rhythm of that tattoo gun itself. It tingles at his fingertips, humming along to the melody of the needle. Intertwined. Weaving together, ink and magic, to infuse into the flesh beneath his touch.

He loves working on intricate tattoos. Ones where he gets to really exercise his magic and play with the combination of ink and blood. He gets lost in it. Pulled into a trance.

Usually, anyway.

It’s hard to surrender to the peace of the moment when Lance is continuously whining and his mother is hovering over his shoulder.

“Fascinating,” she whispers. He can feel her presence looming. As tall as she is, it’s easy for her to stand behind him and bend over him and his work to get a good look at it. If it were anyone else, he would have snapped at her by now. But… she’s his mom, and the awe and pride in her voice goes straight to his heart. “I’ve never seen anyone of our clan utilize their blood magic this way. I never even considered it a possibility.”

“Well, fey don’t usually consider combining their magic with human things, so that makes sense.” Pidge sits across the room at the front desk, hunched over her laptop as she browses new jewelry options to bring into the shop.

The parlor itself is closed for now, giving them complete privacy while Keith gives Lance his first tattoo. Still, both he and Krolia wear full glamour, just in case any wandering eyes peer through the windows.

Above him, Krolia hums thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s true. Normally domesticated fey are the first to combine their magic with human invention… though our clan has been fighting back against Zarkon for centuries, which left little room for domestication. I was the closest, but even that did not last.” Her hand comes down on Keith’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I suppose it took an ironblood to consider something so ingenious.”

Keith shrugs, keeping his head bowed to hide his smile, preening at his mother’s praise. “I wouldn’t have thought about it without Shiro. If he didn’t have an interest in tattoos, I never would have tried combining my blood magic with ink.”

“Still, the ingenuity is all yours.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, warmth curling in his chest. He finishes up the last of the outline and wipes it clean, leaning back to get a good look at it.

The arrow on Lance’s forearm is a work of art. A double barbed head, sharp and wicked, yet elegant in design. In the center of the shaft is a circle, so far empty. On either side of the arrow are depictions of a sun and a moon, intricate imagery to represent summer and winter.

Pretty, perfect, and completing each other. Duel nature. Just like Lance himself.

Instead of feathers, the fletching on the arrow is a small clustered bouquet of forget-me-nots and roses.

“How’re you holding up?” He asks, leaning back to set the gun aside and tossing the paper towel he’d been holding.

Lance’s breath is heavy and wheezing, chest heaving with every inhale. He leans back in the chair, free arm draped over his face. “I think I’m dying. Are you sure there’s no metal in that thing?”

Keith snorts, twisting his chair to face his work station where he has a line of inks set up, as well as a line of small vials. Each one containing a few drops of blood. “No metal. This is one of Shiro’s specialty made ones. Designed specifically for tattooing fey. You’re not dying.”

“I _am_. I can’t feel my arm. I think I’m going to lose it. I’m going to need a cool prosthetic like Shiro. Hey, Pidge, do you think you could combine your druid magic and human brains to to create a prosthetic for me?”

“I could probably whip up something pretty good,” she hums absently. “But I’m with Keith. You’re being a big baby.”

“I am _not!_ It hurts! It’s like a knife being pressed into my skin over and over again.” He rolls his head to the side, looking at Keith with big, wide eyes. Lips pursed into a cute little pout.

Keith just smiles, leaning over to press a consoling kiss to his shoulder and gently nuzzling against it with his cheek. “You’re fine. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“How dare you insult me in my time of pain,” he huffs.

Keith just tilts his head, smiling up at him. “The fact that you can’t even _say_ that you’re not being dramatic means that you know you are.”

Lance scoffs, slouching further in the chair as he pouts. His eyes dart away for a moment before sliding back. He gazes at Keith through his lashes, voice so small as he mutters, “It still hurts…”

“I know,” Keith’s smile is kinder this time, and he presses another kiss to Lance’s shoulder. “But you’re doing so good, and I know you’ve dealt with worse. You’ll be fine.”

“You’re so mean to me.”

“You love me.”

Lance has nothing to say to that. Nothing besides a whine and another huff. They both know any denial would be a lie. So instead, he changes the subject. “How much longer? How much is finished?”

Keith starts preparing his inks, but he pauses to glance sidelong at him, one eyebrow raised. “Have you looked at it yet?”

Lance merely holds his gaze, lips pursed and petulant. “No.”

“You can look at it and see how close it is to being finished.”

“Don’t want to.”

Keith quirks a brow. “Why not?”

Lance rolls his face back to the ceiling, covering his eyes with his free arm. He tries to sound flippant, but Keith can see the subtle pull of his smile. “I don’t want to look at it until it’s done. I want to be surprised.”

It’s… oddly sweet. Keith just goes back to his inks with a smile. “Okay.”

His mother pulls up a seat as he prepares for the next step, intensely focused on his process. She asks questions, and he answers eagerly. Aside from Shiro, Pidge, and Matt, he’s never had anyone interested or able to listen to his process. And certainly never anyone who actually intimately understood blood magic.

Meanwhile, Pidge brings Lance a glass of something fruity, honeyed, and far too sweet. She curls her lip at it, but Lance sighs with relief as he sips, body relaxing. She walks away muttering, and he catches the words _fey, sugar_ , and _pathetic_.

“I’ve seen our most powerful use blood magic to control bodies like puppets,” Krolia says as she watches him mix a drop of every vial of blood into one pot of black ink. “I’ve seen healers utilize our magic to save lives. I’ve seen my kin use it to create weapons and acid from their blood. I’ve seen our blood used as poisons and to scry. But I’ve never seen someone utilize our inherent magic in such a creative and selflessly helpful way… It’s astounding.”

Heat rises up his cheeks, flushing his cheeks as he merely shrugs, tongue caught and tied.

“Your father would be proud of you,” Krolia whispers, looking at him with an intense gaze and a kind smile.

“Thanks, mom,” he mutters, voice cracking and throat feeling thick.

She places a hand on his back, patting him gently. “I will give you space for this next part. I imagine it’s the most intensive.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. You can pull up a chair and sit on the other side of Lance, if you want?”

She nods, already moving to find a stool. “I’ll do that.”

When he begins again, it’s with a deep breath and a tap into his magic. The final touch is pressing the pad of his finger to one of his fangs, squeezing out a drop of his own blood to the mix.

He loses track of time as he works. The voices of his friends and family blur together in the background. Movement is lost in his peripheral. Even the music that plays through the speakers around the shop fades away. All that exists is the vibrations of his tattoo gun, the swirl of ink, the melody of his magic in his veins, and the taut flesh of Lance’s arm beneath his fingertips.

He watches, transfixed and almost from afar, as color and life bleeds into the image beneath his touch.

And when he’s done, he blinks, shaking his head to clear away the remnants of his trance. He cleans the tattoo, carefully and gently— _lovingly_. He wipes it down and cradles Lance’s arm in his hands, a small smile stretching across his lips.

“Perfect,” he mutters, admiring his work.

The shading on the roses and forget-me-nots is impeccable, if he does say so himself. Vibrantly red and blue, infused with a little magic to make sure it stays that way long after it’s healed— as well as some magic to keep the petals shimmering and shining, as if graced with morning dew.

The sun and moon— summerscape and winterscape— give depth to the whole thing, intricate but colors muted and faded, giving the arrow itself attention front and center.

Within the circle at the center of the arrow’s shaft is now a detailed compass.

The ink that makes up the compass is a special cocktail. One that contains a small drop of blood from all those Lance holds dear. All of his family members, young and old. Allura, Romelle, and Coran. Hunk and Shay. Pidge and Shiro. And Keith. Even Kosmo has a drop in there.

If Lance ever needs to find any of them, he only needs to press a drop of his own blood to the center of the compass and say their name. His blood will activate the spell Keith has so carefully woven into his skin, igniting the dormant drops of Keith’s blood magic.

The compass will then point toward that person. If they’re in the mortal realm, the tattoo will remain the same. If they’re in the summer lands, the sun will grow vibrant. If they’re in the winter lands, the moon will glow. If they’re in the wild lands between, both sides will ignite.

And this way, Lance will always be able to find those he loves most.

It’s the most intricate tattoo Keith has ever done, and he feels the exhaustion creeping in the wake of his satisfaction and pride. His body feels heavy. Eyes dry and lidded. Sweat prickles at his skin. His magic feels drained and weary, retreating deep in his chest and leaving his veins feeling hollow.

“It’s beautiful,” Lance whispers, soft and awed. Keith looks up to see his face, soft and open as he gazes down at his arm. “Keith… Keith it’s _perfect_.”

Keith stands, intent to clean his station, but he wobbles a bit, and Lance pulls him down to sit next to him in the chair. “Worth the pain?”

“Definitely.” He turns, pressing a kiss to the corner of Keith’s mouth. He whispers, soft and private, “You’re incredible.” Keith just smiles, leaning his head against Lance’s, nuzzling hard until he chuckles. “Will it work?”

“Mhmm,” Keith hums, slouching against Lance’s side. “You’ll need to wait until it heals before testing it. Just in case. But I’m certain it’ll work.” His eyes drift closed. Man, he could use some coffee right about—

“Here Keith, it looks like you could use this.” He blinks, eyes taking a moment to focus on the coffee cup held in front of his face. He looks beyond it, finding Hunk standing there with a wide, friendly grin.

“Oh… thanks, Hunk.” He’d been so out of it while working that he hadn’t even noticed him arrive.

“No problem. Pidge texted me and said you looked like you were gonna crash when you were done. Looks like she was right.” Hunk chuckles, and Keith glances over at Pidge, who merely smiles over the rim of her own cup and gives him a little salute. “Besides, I wanted to see the finished product. It looks amazing!”

They crowd around Lance’s chair— Pidge, Hunk, Shiro, and Krolia— gaping and admiring. They layer on praise. Ooze excitement. Lance babbled, animated in his relief and adrenaline now that the whole thing is over.

Keith just closes his eyes, letting it roll over him as he cradles the warm cup between his hands and nuzzles into Lance’s neck.

“Hey, Keith?”

He cracks his eyes open, finding Shiro standing next to him. Arms crossed loosely. An amused smile on his face. Eyes beaming with pride. “Hey.”

“Your work is… incredible. And with your magic, you’re able to do things that I could never have imagined. Weaving spells into ink, blood, and flesh… you could really make a name for yourself. If you ever want to start taking on more fey clients, let me know.”

Keith hums, eyes drifting closed once more. At one point in time, he would have given a firm and resolute _no_. But now… the fey don’t scare him much anymore. And he _enjoys_ designing and creating tattoos like this. Ones where he gets to exercise his magic and put his creativity to the test. It feels good to embrace the part of himself that he’s kept locked away for so long.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to take on more fey clientele. Domestic fey who enjoy the human realm. Ironbloods. Druids like Pidge and Matt. Others who exist with the knowledge of fey and magic.

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters, but he knows he’ll end up taking Shiro up on that offer.

* * *

Lance’s family is a whirlwind.

His family’s cozy farm sprawls out across fields deep within the wild lands of the fey realm. Surrounded by orchards and fields of flowers— vibrant, large, and a little terrifying if Keith is being honest.

He’d be lying if he said he isn’t nervous about the visit. After all, Lance is introducing his fey family to his ironblood boyfriend— lover— partner— life mate? His stomach is tied in knots, heart hammering in his chest as they step through the faerie ring and walk down the path to their farm. He’s removed the glamour that makes him appear human, allowing himself to look as fey as he can in hopes to impress.

But from the moment they step into his family home— an entire abode constructed from twisting and cavernous trees that have been sung into shape and woven with summer magic— Keith is overwhelmed.

He’s paraded through a long line of faces that are unfamiliar, and yet so similar to Lance’s own. Smiles, bright and sharp. Eyes, blue and mischievous. Skin tones that soak in the sun. Some of them have hair white as snow, like Lance’s. Others have hair the color of fresh turned soil and chestnuts.

They’re all high fey. Keith can tell from how _human_ they look, just like Lance. It’s a clear indicator that his grandparents had been powerful in their respective courts before they had left to live a solitary life together.

Lance gives him a list of names, broken up by shouts to family and admonishing them for their grabbing hands and quick tongues— all of them trying to talk with him at once. Keith retains very little, simply trying to stay standing and stick close to Lance’s side.

But… his mother has a kind smile, wrapping him up in a warm hug and welcoming him to the family.

His father clasps his arm and says he’s heard good things.

His siblings all joke and jab, elbowing Keith in the ribs as they rattle off insults at Lance’s expense, laughing with Keith like he’s already one of them.

His niece and nephew are the loudest, grabbing at his glamoured clothes and demanding his attention as they rattle off question after question, never once giving him time to answer.

And Lance has disappeared from his side, leaving him at their mercy.

“Why are you purple? Are you winter court?”

“What’s the winter court like?”

“Is it cold?”

“Of course, it’s cold. It’s the _winter_ court. What’s it like there?”

“Is that a faerie marking or a human tattoo?”

“Uncle Lance says you’re an ironblood. Is that why you have metal in your lip? Did that hurt?”

“How do you kiss uncle Lance?”

“Alright, you little gremlins.” His head snaps up, eyes widening as he finds Veronica standing there, hands on her hips and a smile on her lips even as she glares at her niece and nephew. “Give him some room to breathe. Go on and ask uncle Lance your questions.”

“But we wanna play with Keith.”

“You can play with him later. Now go.” They huff and whine— which brings a smile to him unbidden, reminding him far too much of Lance— but eventually allow themselves to be shooed away.

“Sorry about them,” Veronica says, turning to face him. “They’re just excited.”

“It’s okay.” He shifts his weight, stilted and awkward, but breathing a sigh of relief. “They remind me a little of Lance.”

“Well, he _is_ their favorite uncle.” She steps forward then, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him forward. He’s caught off guard, stumbling until he hits her chest. But she’s unflinching and unwavering, wrapping him up in a tight embrace.

He freezes, hands hovering, uncertain. The last time he had seen her, she had been threatening him in his backyard, full of righteous fury and a protective gale.

Now… Now she’s _hugging_ him.

“I appreciate what you did,” she whispers, voice soft and private. “You kept your word about Lance, but more than that… your actions mean that the rift between courts is healing. It means… I can see Acxa more freely.” She pulls back then, putting her hands on his shoulders and meeting his gaze, eyes sharp and smile mischievous. “Thanking you would be far too human, but know that you have my gratitude.”

Keith smiles, sliding his hands into his pockets— because while Lance has told him time and time again that fey clothes don’t have pocket, Keith refuses to give up human comforts even when crafting clothes from glamour and magic. “She keeps your sunflowers, you know.”

Veronica scoffs, rolling her eyes as she steps away. “She better. They’re bound to liven up that stuffy castle. Now come on,” she says, turning and gesturing for him to follow. “My grandmother wants to speak to you.”

Keith swallows hard, glancing over his shoulder to look for Lance but finding no one to help. So he takes a deep breath and steels himself, following after her with stiff steps.

Veronica leads him out of the house, down a garden path. It doesn’t take him long to realize where they’re going. The garden around them is smaller, containing plants that he recognizes from his time in the winter lands. And at the center is a large, looming, winter willow.

She pauses outside the canopy of falling leaves, pulling them aside and gesturing for him to enter. The beads of ice clink and chime, as they rattle together, creating a ripple of soft music.

He steps through with a sense of nostalgia, reminded of the winter willow he used to seek solace with at the winter court. The branches swing closed, rippling with a soft chime in the wind. Veronica doesn’t follow him.

“Come, child.”

His gaze snaps to the trunk, where a seat is molded from the thick roots. Atop the seat is a woman. She’s paler than most of Lance’s family, though she retains that same sun-kissed quality. Her hair falls in waves of snow white, shifting to the silver sheen of ice near the tips of her curls. Her blue eyes are unfocused and hazy, a film of white shifting over her irises in constant motion, like clouds in the sky.

Yet she looks directly at him, gesturing him forward.

“Um…” He says as he approaches. “Hello?”

“Hello, young ironblood.” Despite the warmth of the wild lands, it’s cold here beneath the willow. Though he sees no ice, the grass crunches beneath his feet. Her voice is soft, but rattles like a chilling breeze. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

“Has… Lance talked about me?”

Her lips curl, slow and slight. Her amusement ripples in the branches of the tree. “Yes, but that is not why I have anticipated your arrival.”

Keith’s eyes narrow, brows furrowing. “You’re… the one who had the prophecy?”

“I am. On the day he was born, I knew he would rise far only to be brought so low.” Though her tone isn’t of malice, her words alone are enough to put Keith on edge.

He steels his expression, masking his wince before it can fully form. The shift is subtle, lifting his chin and straightening his shoulders. Easing into a proper indifferent fey with an unreadable scowl.

But she only chuckles. “So low, indeed. Fallen from grace of the court. Sent away from the Summer Princess’s side. Losing his title of Lord.” She sounds almost… wistful. She closes her eyes with a sigh, humming contently. “Now my grandson is domestic as he can get, living in the human realm and living with the same ironblood who pulled him from grace.”

Her eyes open then, pinning Keith with her cloudy gaze. The intensity of it is offset by the cheshire grin that stretches across her lips.

“And he’s finally, truly _happy_. For which, you have my eternal gratitude.”

Keith blinks, feeling off kilter and dizzy. “You’re…” He swallows hard, tilting his head as his brows pinch. “You’re not… mad?”

She laughs, and a cold breeze rolls across the willow. “Oh dear, _no_. I’ve always known his fall from grace would also be his saving grace. Now please, what may I call you, savior of my grandson?”

“Keith,” he breathes.

She nods, putting her hands to the roots and pushing herself to her feet. “Come then, Keith.” She walks up to him, taking his arm and steering him back towards the path. “Let’s find my grandson. I would like to hear all about the home you’ve built for yourselves in the mortal realm.”

* * *

As summer sets in and warmth chases away the chill and the rain, the park becomes busier.

Being the only cluster of nature within the confines of the city, the park is a popular hunting ground for fey. However, now he and Lance have staked their claim on this little hub of wildlife. The claim Lance had made for the summer court no longer holds, and yet the park isn’t quite neutral.

It’s territory of the princess’s old favorite and his lover, the fearsome ironblood who felled the winter queen.

The reputation works in their favor, and gossip amongst the fey spreads fast. Soon, the park becomes a peaceful and safe place for fey, humans, and ironbloods to intermingle. No hunting is allowed. No hurting humans. Socialization is encouraged.

Lance may no longer be at Allura’s side, but he’s well known, as is the power he wields. He’s a dangerous fey in his own right, and he’s not afraid to use that to his advantage when it comes to terrifying others into obeying his rules.

Keith isn’t above admitting that seeing Lance like that is… kind of hot.

With the park being safer for all, Rolo and Nyma have taken to setting up their busking here on occasion. Both of them grateful for everything Keith and Lance have done— they had heard about it through gossip, though they had refused to believe it until Keith had confirmed it for himself.

Keith is happy that he could give them a safer shot at life, and it makes him overjoyed to see them and Lance getting along.

Right now, they sit in the big intersection of paths. Rolo perches atop his box drum, lost in a rhythm of his own making. Nyma and Lance sit on the lip of the fountain.

They sing together, and the melody is hauntingly beautiful. Both of them weaving harmonies together like they were born to do so. Like the music exists in their souls, and they are mere instruments to unleash it into the world.

Which… honestly might be the case, given that they both have siren blood in their veins.

The bucket at their feet is filled with bills. The little square at the heart of the park is packed. People sit around on benches and in the grass, within earshot as they revel in the music. Those who walk by slow, lingering just to hear more. Most of them reach for their wallets at some point or another.

Keith sits at the base of a tree, a sketchbook on his lap and a pencil in his hand.

He’s gotten back into sketching. An old hobby from his youth that faded as he grew older— hands constantly wanting to draw the face of a beautiful boy he didn’t remember. Now that pretty boy is back in his life, and his sketchbook is filled to the brim with etchings of that face he loves so much— and his shoulders— and his chest— and his waist— and his legs— and his hands.

His muse is alight and alive, and Keith desperately attempts to capture him on the page, and yet graphite can never do him justice.

Right now, he’s sketching Lance on the fountain with Nyma, both of them dazzlingly beautiful in the bright glow of the midday sun. He thinks he’s done Nyma justice, but he’s definitely putting extra love into the dip of Lance’s cupid’s bow and the curve of his lips.

Beezer and Kosmo curl up at his sides, both of them exhausted and panting from running around the park together.

As he glances up, Lance catches his eye across the park square. He smiles as he sings. His eyes dancing with lingering fondness. His glamour shimmers in his hair and atop his cheeks. As he sings, his expression is open. Unguarded. Relaxed.

He’s… happy here. In the human realm. Content and at peace. More so than Keith has ever seen him. Even as he draws attention to himself, both from mortals and fey, giving life to the winter fey blood in his veins. Even as he sits with two ironbloods without a shred of worry.

It makes his heart squeeze, warmth pooling his his chest with the knowledge that he’s responsible for that. For showing Lance he can be himself, without fear or doubt or reservation. For giving him a home.

He looks back down at his sketchbook, the tip of his pencil lingering over the curve of Lance’s neck. For the sake of accuracy— and because he knows Lance will be adorably indignant about it later— Keith sketches in the dark hickies he left lingering on Lance’s skin.

* * *

The long ride up the twisting, winding driveway is a peaceful one. The trees have been sung into the shape of a tunnel, lined with flowers and shrubs, making it feel like he’s leaving the mortal realm behind and entering a bubble of magic, privacy, and safety.

Which… he supposes isn’t far from the truth.

Kosmo doesn’t greet him when he cuts the bike’s engine beneath the protective overhang, nor as he walks up the front porch. He learns why when he steps over the threshold, the smell of food rolling over him in a wave.

He pauses, smiles, and gently closes the door behind him. Kicking off his shoes as silently as he can, leaving his jacket in a heap on the floor, he pads quietly into the house. It smells of warmth and spices. Of meat and garlic and bread. With a lingering sweetness layered over the bite of spice.

He lingers at the wall of their polaroids. New and old. A collage that’s a testament to how far they’ve come. To where they began and where they are now. All of Keith’s old pictures hang there, including the first one he ever took with Lance. Amongst them are the polaroids he has from his father: old pictures of him and Krolia in her human glamour. Of the two of them holding Keith as a baby.

And then there are the new ones. Of all of their friends. Of him and Lance and Kosmo. Of Keith and Krolia. Of him and Shiro.

He takes a moment to admire the home he’s built and the family he’s found before he moves on.

He finds Lance in the kitchen, wearing a pair of his sweatpants and one of his shirts, hanging a little loose on his more narrow frame. It’s cute, and it makes Keith’s heart stutter and skip. In this realm, Lance insists on wearing human clothes. He likes the way they feel and the sensation of protection they provide. And while he has his own growing wardrobe, in their home, he always insists on wearing _Keith’s_ clothes.

“ _They smell like you,_ ” he once said. “ _Your warmth lingers in them_.”

In one hand, he holds a wooden spoon, and the other is covered with a thick rubber glove. Protection that allows him to handle all the metal pots, pans, and appliances in the kitchen. He’s far more likely to be burned from the iron than he is from the heat.

Despite the dangers of being in the kitchen (because while they do their best to keep most metal products out of their house, some things just aren’t an option), Lance insists on cooking. Hunk has been teaching him, both how to navigate a human kitchen as a fey and how to cook human food— often with a hint of fey ingredients because they simply can’t help themselves. Not that Keith is complaining.

Music plays from a bluetooth speaker, and Lance sings along under his breath. He’s been indulging in human music lately, fully captivated by it. As he is with most human things.

His hips sway as he works, stirring something in a pot on the stove. Head bobbling gently with the tune. Kosmo sits at his feet, sparing Keith an excited glance before going back to giving Lance— and the food— his undivided attention.

Lance doesn’t wear his glamour, fully stripped to his true form. White hair. White freckles. Sharp features. Blue marks. Pointed ears. The early evening glow shines through the windows, casting them in a warm, amber glow.

The scene in the kitchen is…. unbearably soft. Homey. Cozy. A strange combination of fey and human that just manages to _work_ , forming something whole and complete that Keith has longed for his entire life. It makes his heart melt.

He wonders, if both his parents had survived and stayed… would this be the sort of life he grew up with? With a faerie mother who cooked carefully in a human kitchen, and a father who came home from his ordinary job to find Keith practicing magic in the living room?

He shakes his head, refocused on the here and now as he pads forward.

Though he thinks he’s being as silent as he can, Lance isn’t startled at his touch. He slides up right behind him, wrapping his arms around Lance’s waist. Hands slipping beneath the hem of his own shirt to cross over Lance’s stomach and settle on his sides. He presses his chest to Lance’s back, head bowing to nuzzle against his neck.

Lance merely chuckles, leaning back against him. “Welcome home,” he mutters, tilting his head to press his lips to Keith’s temple. “Dinner is almost ready.”

Keith huffs a laugh against the curve of his neck, turning to tease the tip of his nose along sensitive skin. “You’ve become so domesticated.” He gently rocks them from side to side. “You put Hunk to shame, and he’s been in the mortal realm for a lot longer than you.”

Lance hums, not at all offended and definitely amused. “What about Shiro?”

Keith snorts. “You’ll never beat Shiro. He was raised here. Sometimes I think he’s more human than I am.”

“I’m not sure I ever want to reach that level of domestication.”

“Good.” Keith slides his lips along the back of Lance’s neck, loving the way he tilts his head to give Keith more room. His breath catches, so soft that Keith is sure he’s trying to hide it. But he hears it all the same. He presses his smile to the hollow beneath Lance’s ear, voice a low rumble as he says, “I like you a little wild.”

“Keith…” Lance says his name like a plea and a warning, whispered on the end of a shuttering breath.

“Hmmm?” His hands begin to wander, roaming beneath Lance’s shirt— _Keith’s_ shirt. Tracing the curves of his body, the outlines of his muscles, the planes of his chest. He lingers with the fingers of one hand following his v-lines, trailing from hip to where it dips beneath his waistband. His other hand pushes up the shirt, thumb gently toying with the hardening bud of a nipple.

Lance’s breath comes ragged and short, body shuddering under Keith’s touch. His head is thrown back, resting on Keith’s shoulder as Keith sucks his earlobe between his teeth.

“ _Keeeeith_ , I worked really hard on this. It’s a new recipe.”

“I know. I know how much you love to take care of me. But let me take care of you…” Keith’s hand leaves Lance’s chest, gently taking the handle of the pan from Lance’s gloved hand and pushing it to a back-burner. He reaches forward, flicking off the stove. “Let me show you how much I appreciate it.”

“It’ll get cold,” Lance whines, but he’s already giving in. Keith can hear it. Can _feel_ it.

He peels the glove off of Lance’s hand, tossing it to the counter before guiding his hand to his lips, pressing lingering kisses to Lance’s knuckles. Breath hot on his fingers. “No, it won’t.”

Keith hums softly as he reaches into that bundle of magic in his core, coaxing it to unfurl and bloom. Petals of fire peel apart, burning bright and vivid within his ribcage, oozing warmth through his veins. It’s a lazy pull. Effortless and languid as he tugs at his magic. Nothing rushed. Nothing urgent. The heat is that of a bonfire, bright but controlled, comforting and cozy.

He lifts his hand from Lance’s hip, waving it over the stove with a curl of his fingers. Reaching with his magic to weave it into the air itself.

He silently reaches for the heat radiating from the dinner Lance had prepared, encouraging it to hold steady. He combines it with some of the techniques he’s learned from practicing his glamour. Creating a bubble of stasis around the stove. Encouraging time to stand still, keeping the food fresh and warm without overcooking it.

It’s a use of magic that, years ago, Keith never would have considered. Something he no doubt would have struggled with. But with the help of Lance, Shiro, and Acxa— who he’s kept contact with and who visits them often, usually with Veronica— Keith is learning more and more about what he’s capable of.

There are still limitations to his magic, being of diluted blood. But he’s exercising those limits, figuring out where the boundaries lie.

The little stasis bubble around their food won’t last more than a few hours, but it’s plenty of time.

Keith presses a smug grin to Lance’s neck. “Now we have a few hours to _indulge_. Maybe have a taste of dessert before dinner.”

Lance chuckles, turning in his embrace and sliding his hands up Keith’s chest, resting his arms on his shoulders and tangling his fingers in Keith’s hair. His smile is mischievous and coy, eyes lidded and dark. He doesn’t look at all put off by Keith’s suggestion. “Living with you may be domesticating me, but living with _me_ has made _you_ more fey.”

Keith hums, turning his head to nuzzle against Lance’s inner wrist, feeling his pulse jump beneath his lips. “And what would a fey do in this situation?”

There’s a heat burning beneath those churning blue eyes as Lance whispers, “A fey would _take_ what they want.”

Keith grins, wide and wicked, knowing that his fangs show by the way Lance shivers.

Without warning, Keith steps away, far enough to bend down and wrap his arms around Lance’s legs. When he stands, strong and fluid in his motion, he swings Lance over his shoulder, laughing at the indignant squawk that leaves the man’s lips.

“Keith!” He says, voice pitched high as he slaps a hand against Keith’s back. “This isn’t romantic! This is barbaric!”

Keith turns, carrying him easily out of the kitchen, patting the roundness of his ass in a way that’s meant to console— but really is merely an excuse to cup the swell of it in his palm. “What’d you expect when you choose to be with an ironblood?”

“I expect to be _wooed_! Just because you grew up mortal is no excuse! Even humans have courting rituals.” Lance huffs, embracing his fate and going limp over Keith’s shoulder. “I deserve romance.”

“You do,” Keith says, rubbing his palm up and down the back of Lance’s thigh as he carries him down the hall to their room. He kicks the door shut behind him, a signal to Kosmo that they shouldn’t be disturbed.

He tosses Lance on the bed, barely giving him time to bounce once and get adjusted before he’s crawling over him— settling between his legs and looming over him on his elbows. He doesn’t miss the way Lance’s legs fall open. Nor the way his breath hitches, lips parting and back arching in an attempt to get closer.

Keith smiles down at him, rolling his hips against Lance’s in a long, smooth motion. Watching as the man beneath him gasps and shudders. He leans down, head tilted, hovering with their mouths aligned but not quite touching. “Which is exactly why I’m going to worship every inch of you and let you know _exactly_ how much you mean to me.”

Lance’s fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down into a heady kiss. Heads tilted for the right angle. Tongues sliding between pliant lips. Lance holds him in place, taking everything Keith gives him, and Keith doesn’t mind. He rolls his body down on top of Lance’s, indulging in several slow, steady grinds. Just to hear the way Lance gasps and whimpers into his mouth.

“I love this human thing,” Lance whispers, pulling back run the tip of his tongue over Keith’s lip piercing, sounding breathless and needy. “It makes kissing you… taste spicy.” He licks his own lips, tongue lingering where Keith’s piercing has touched. “I like it…”

Keith smirks, pressing their lips together once more. When he pulls back, he lingers, lips softly caressing, just to tease. Forever grateful that the titanium of his piercing doesn’t burn Lance. That it arouses him that he can touch the metal. That the gentle tingling of it infuses every kiss Keith leaves on his body.

And then Keith is moving down, dragging his lips from Lance’s mouth to his jaw, down over his neck. He’s thorough as he leaves a trail of dark marks behind. All tongue and teeth, soothing over his sharp bites with soft lips and languid sucks. Lance’s breath hitches every time Keith catches him with his fangs, squirming as Keith moves down to his collarbones.

His hands slide under the shirt Lance wears, pushing it higher and higher— then leaning back to pull it over his head and toss it to the side.

He hovers then, straddling Lance’s hips, looming above him and staring down the length of his body to the man who already looks wrecked beneath him.

He’s beautiful. Snow white hair spilling out over their pillows. The curved blue marks beneath his eyes glow faintly, pulsing with every heavy breath. The swirl of marks cut through the smooth, dark skin of his torso. Beautiful and elegant.

And there, resting innocently atop his chest, is the necklace he wove himself, holding Keith’s old marble in a loving embrace.

Keith swallows thickly, muttering a soft, “How do you want me?” Before gesturing to himself. He still wears his glamour, appearing human.

He’s… never asked Lance what his preference is. Whether it’s the Keith that he’s always known or the Keith with fey blood pulsing through his veins. They’ve done it both ways, with and without glamour, but Keith has never asked…

Lance smiles, eyes lidded and dark eyes sparkling as that languid grin spreads across his lips. “I want all of you, Keith. _All_ of you. As you truly are.”

With a steadying breath, Keith’s eyes close briefly, letting go of his hold on the magic that holds his appearance. He feels it pull away, threads of the woven light and energy unraveling and dissipating into the air. Leaving his skin feeling raw and sensitive and bare.

When he opens his eyes, he’s ironblood once more. Skin a pale lavender. Ear tips pointed. Hair dark purple. Fangs prominent.

Beneath him, Lance’s grin only widens, voice breathless as he says, “There you are.” He reaches out, fingers curling insistently.

Keith bows forward, letting his face fall into Lance’s cupped palms. Letting himself be pulled forward into a slow and tender kiss. Lazy and lingering, but simmering with a heat that neither of them can deny. That builds and builds— until Lance is nipping at his lip and Keith is once more sliding down his body.

Lance’s skin is smooth to the touch, heated beneath his palms. Keith explores the expanse of it slowly, mapping out his chest with careful fingers and gentle lips. He traces the curves. The dips between muscle. The swirling blue marks that glow in the dim light of their room.

Lance’s breath heaves beneath him, body squirming and muscles twitching beneath his touch. Fingers card through Keith’s hair, constant and pleading.

Keith settles between his legs, lifting both of his thighs and hooking his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants. He slides them off easily. Slowly. Revealing the skin of his legs inch by inch. Following in the wake with his lips as he trails kisses down one thigh.

When they’re off, tossed to the floor, Keith resumes his position, hooking Lance’s legs around his shoulders, hands splayed out over hips and thighs.

Lance’s cock, much like the rest of him, is a thing of beauty. Long and slender. Curved just so. Flushed and thick. Nestled in a bed of white curls. Several soft ridges flare the underside, colored darker and growing harder as his arousal heightens.

Two curls of blue flow around Lance’s hips, diving down the dip of his v-lines and crawling up the sides of his shaft to encircle the head.

Keith traces the lines of blue with his tongue, swirling around the head before tonguing the slit where precum beads. Salty and earthy, but with a strange sweetness that Keith finds addicting. Makes his tongue tingle and his head spin, hazy and light.

He thinks fey semen might be an aphrodisiac, but he’s never bothered to ask.

He swallows Lance down, loving the way the man cries out, fingers tightening in his hair. He takes him from tip to root, burying his nose in those soft curls and ignoring the burning behind his eyes as his throat spasms around the intrusion. When he pulls up, it’s slow, sucking hard to draw out a stuttering gasp and low moan.

He pops off, licking his tingling lips and gazing up the length of Lance’s body to find those beautiful blue eyes gazing at him, lidded and pupils blown.

Keith smirks, feeling his fangs bite at his teeth. He gives Lance’s thigh a final nibble before pulling away, rising up on his knees.

Lance lets out a whine of protest, but Keith just pats his thigh. “Roll over for me. Up on your knees.”

Keith leaves him to it, crawling up the side of their bed to reach the nightstand. The bottle he’s looking for— beautifully handblown purple glass in a twisted shape— sits right on top. Right within hands reach for when they need it.

While they’ve found that human lubricants— water based preferably— are safe to use on Lance, several brands tend to leave rashes when not properly cleaned after. Lance’s fey body doesn’t like the chemicals, and the one time he made the mistake of tasting it, his face had contorted so quickly into one of disgust as he leaned over the bed to gag.

Ever since then, Lance has taken it upon himself to shop for specialty lubricants in the fey realm.

And… Keith really can’t complain. Not only is it safer and more comfortable for Lance— which is really the major selling point— it also has the added benefit of actually _tasting_ like more than artificial flavors and chemicals.

He turns back to find Lance on his knees, just as instructed. His arms are resting on a pillow, crossed for his head to lay atop them. Turned to gaze at Keith with an excited, lustful, and— frankly— dopey smile. And when he finally meets Keith’s eye, he wiggles his hips— enticing and teasing.

Keith’s heart clenches.

He loves this man so fucking much.

“Look at you,” he says, voice low and hoarse. He crawls behind Lance, who spreads his legs further after Keith applies gentle pressure to his thighs. “So good for me.” He presses his lips to Lance’s lower back. “So pretty like this.” A kiss to both cheeks before he palms them and pulls them apart, admiring his twitching hole. “So ready for me.”

Keith bows his head, nestles his face between Lance’s cheeks, and slides his tongue over his pretty little hole.

He takes him apart slowly. Taking his time exploring, teasing, tasting every inch of him. He pushes his tongue in as far as he can, curling around his rim until Lance lets out a broken sob, body trembling.

Keith drizzles the lube between his cheeks, admiring how the amber liquid runs like honey over Lance’s tan skin. It tastes sweet and floral, thick and rich. He indulges with a few last pushes of his tongue before his fingers take over, stretching Lance with great patience and care.

He doesn’t rush it. Lets him feel every stretch of each finger, pumping them deep inside and curling them until Lance is _writhing_ , legs threatening to give out. Squirming as he gasps and shudders, body quivering.

One hand pushes three fingers inside him, stretching them slowly, while the other takes hold of his cock, hanging hot and heavy between his legs, stroking him with agonizing slowness.

He watches the show. Watches as Lance’s hands clench in the pillow. Jaw clenching before hanging open. Chest heaving with every breath. He buries his face in the pillow to muffle his cries— his demands— his pleas— knowing that they won’t work when Keith gets like this. Knowing full well that he’s at Keith’s mercy.

And finally— after watching him unravel until his own cock aches, neglected and hard— Keith grants that mercy.

He peels off his own clothes, tossing them carelessly to the side before taking hold of Lance’s hips and gently guiding him to turn. Once he’s on his back, Keith settles once more between his legs, wetting his cock with lube and giving himself a few strokes.

Beneath him, Lance is beautiful. Spread out and open. Legs splayed wide and welcoming. His arms lie on the bed, palms up and fingers clenching as his body continues to spasm. His lips are parted at wet, reddened from Keith’s teeth and his own. He watches Keith with lidded eyes, blue irises churning and raging like a storm at sea as he drinks him in— as that heated gaze rakes down Keith’s body with a hunger that leaves him breathless.

Keith might be the one to take Lance apart, but Lance is the one who will devour him.

When he lines himself up and pushes in, both of them gasp and groan. Lance’s back arches off the bed, and Keith bows over him, head falling as his eyes squeeze shut. Warm, wet heat envelops him, squeezing him just right and pulling him deeper. Until their hips meet and they’re both left reeling— hazy— floating—

His hands run along Lance’s thighs, grounding them both as they adjust.

And then those thighs are wrapping around his hips and hands are reaching for his shoulders. Keith lets Lance pull him down, propping himself up on his elbows as his body lays atop the fey’s, until every breath has their chests meeting. Lance pulls him into a kiss, and Keith is helpless to refuse, letting Lance lick into his mouth with urgent desperation.

When he finally moves, the pace he sets is agonizing. He pulls back slowly, until just the tip remains and he can feel the twitching rim of muscle. And then he pushes back in, long and deep, slow and steady.

He fucks Lance like that, in even strokes, until they’re both shuddering and gasping. Until Lance’s nails bite harshly into the skin of his back. Until he’s squirming and writhing beneath Keith’s weight. Until his legs, still wrapped around him, clench and urge Keith to go faster.

Until Lance is babbling a breathless stream of pleas. _Harder— faster— please, Keith— please— I need it— I need it— need you— come on— fuck me— more— please—_

And Keith has never been able to deny Lance anything.

He picks up the pace suddenly and without warning. Snapping from languid to bruising in an instant. And the moan that rips from Lance’s throat is _beautiful_.

He moves quickly, snapping his hips with urgency, loving the slap of their flesh and every punched out breath that rattles past Lance’s lips. Until he’s lost in it. Until he’s mindlessly chasing the pleasure. Building the sensation higher and higher— more and more— until his body is tense and taut— teetering on an edge that he’s desperate to fall from—

“ _Keith_ ,” Lance breathes, using all his strength to pull Keith down. He buries his face in Lance’s neck, panting against his collarbones. Lance turns his head, lips pressed to his ear, right where Keith wears the ear-cuff Lance gave him, a token of their courtship before Keith even realized what that meant—

And whispers his _true name_.

The effect is instant. A tight shiver ripples down his spine, body coiled tight and at attention. It tugs at his body and mind— gripping and sinking down to his very soul— the very essence of _who he is_ —

With it, he wields complete power over him. He owns Keith, just as Keith owns him. And the trust Keith holds in Lance is immense and complete, knowing that he’d never use it to hurt him.

But for this?

This has become Lance’s favorite use of it.

He grins against the shell of Keith’s ear— knowing full well how close he is to orgasm and yet dragging out the moment. Keith’s body remains tightly wound, anticipating _exactly_ what Lance will demand of him. But still, his hips don’t stop, burying himself in that tight heat over and over again— pushing them both closer— closer— _closer_ —

“ _Come for me_ ,” Lance whispers, broken and ragged—

And Keith _crashes_ over the edge.

He comes with a shout, strangled and hoarse, as his orgasm hits him like a wave, surging through him with fire and heat— leaving him spasming as wave after wave ripples through him— his body locks, buried deep, teeth sinking into Lance’s shoulder to muffle his cries.

And beneath him, he distantly hears Lance’s own moan, body shuddering and cum spilling out between them.

He’s not sure how long they lie together, soaked in sweat and the smell of sex. His mind is hazy— drifting— light. Body tingling and occasionally spasming in aftershocks.

He’s warm and content. Body relaxed and molten as he collapses on top of Lance.

Lance just hums happily, distant and light as he revels in his own high. His fingertips are light and fleeting as they trace Keith’s spine. Diving into his hair to detangle the knots his own ministrations have caused. Tracing the tips of his ears, both shell and lobe.

“I love you,” Keith mumbles, lips barely moving against the damp skin of his neck.

And it rings with truth as Lance smiles against his temple, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you, too.”

* * *

Lance, as it turns out, _loves_ video games.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised. When they were kids, he was fascinated by Keith’s gameboy and couldn’t get enough of it. Even the simple app games on the phone Hunk bought for him give him hours of fixated enjoyment.

Still, he had never expected Lance— a fey who had grown up in the wild lands and then spent years at the summer court as a _lord_ — would be _good_ at human video games.

In fact, he might be better than Keith is, and Keith grew up around this sort of technology. He refuses to admit as much, but as he watches Lance give Pidge a run for her money, he resigns himself to the fact that Lance could probably beat him at any game.

But any sort of inadequacy he might feel is drowned out by the immense sensation of pride as he watches Lance taunt Pidge until her face contorts in indignant rage.

“Hey, Keith?” He turns, glancing at Hunk, who waves from the kitchen. “Mind giving me a hand real quick?”

“Sure,” Keith shrugs, unfolding himself from his perch on the arm of the couch. As he goes, he reaches out and runs his fingers through Lance’s hair. He leans into the touch, letting out a quiet hum of appreciation, but that’s all Keith gets.

He’s just stepped into the kitchen when he hears Pidge shout, “You _motherfucker!_ How did you know how to do that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lance taunts.

“You’re cheating. You _have_ to be cheating! Hunk! Is Lance cheating?”

“He looked up some tips and tricks online before he came over—“

“Hunk!”

“But that’s no different than you already knowing the game. It’s all fair.”

“None of this is fair,” Pidge grumbles. “Let’s go again, faerie boy. You’re going _down_.”

Keith smiles, watching Pidge kick at Lance with one socked foot, only to regret it immediately when Lance snatches her ankle and tickles her.

“Maybe we should make them play a game where they work together,” he says as he turns back toward the kitchen, leaning up against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Maybe, but you know how competitive they are. Once they get started like this, it’s best to just let them tire themselves out.” He speaks of them with a level of exasperation, but the smile on his face is incredibly fond. “Do you know where Pidge keeps the plates?”

“That cabinet over there.”

“Thanks.”

“Is that all you needed?”

“Well… No, actually.” He straighten, pulling food from the oven. He sets it aside and fiddles with the specialty made heat resistant gloves he uses while cooking, both working as oven mitts and protecting him from metal without sacrificing dexterity.

Keith idly wonders if he should get some of those for Lance…

Hunk glances toward the living room, through the tangle of plants that decorate Pidge and Matt’s apartment like a jungle. Neither of the two playing games are paying them any mind, but Hunk keeps his voice down anyway.

“I just… wanted to thank you.” Hunk gives him a small but genuine smile, radiating warmth. “For… everything. For saving him from the court. For saving him all those times… he’s my best friend, and I’m really glad he has someone like you to make him happy.”

Keith looks away, lips pursed and brows furrowed. Heat burns in his chest, itching up his neck to settle on his cheeks. The sort of embarrassment that comes with being thanked too many times, especially for something he doesn’t think needs thanks. It’s been a while, and yet he’s still not used to it.

“I didn’t really do anything,” he mutters.

“Dude, you did like, _everything_.” Hunk steps closer, laying a heavy hand on Keith’s shoulder. He begrudgingly looks up through his lashes. Hunk’s smile is kind. “I know you’re not one to take credit, and I know the whole thing had a lot of players, but like… I want to thank _you_ for saving my best friends life and for getting him out of that place. I’ve never seen him so happy, and… as his friend, I’m grateful.”

Keith offers him a small smile, wry as he tries to deflect with, “Fey aren’t supposed to thank people.”

Hunk snorts at that, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, but I trust you.” His brow furrows for a moment. “Shay says I’m always taking on bad human habits… I guess this is one of them. But…” He shrugs. “When I’m with friends, I’m a lot less careful.”

“Trusting people is dangerous for a fey.”

“Guess that’s what being domesticated does to you. Makes you trust more and makes you more vulnerable.”

“Yeah, I guess…” He turns, gaze flickering to the living room, landing on Lance’s profile— brows pinched and lips pursed, tongue sticking out in his concentration. “I just… Everyone is always thanking me for saving him, but… he saved me, too.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “He was my first friend. He’s the reason I have Shiro, and by extension, Pidge. He’s… he’s the reason why _I’m_ happy. It goes both ways.”

To his surprise, Hunk snorts a short laugh, and when he turns to look, the big guy is sporting the biggest grin, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh, trust me. I know. Pidge and Shiro have both already had this same conversation with Lance, thanking him for everything he’s done for _you_. He got all emotional and cried, and they hugged it out.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, even Pidge got misty eyed. But don’t tell her I told you. She’d kill me.” Hunk leans forward then, whispering conspiratorially in Keith’s ear. “Your mom even approached Lance to express her gratitude.” Keith stiffens, eyes going wide. “Yeah, I know. Crazy, right? Lance came to me afterward to gush about it. She wanted to express her appreciation that he’s taken care of you throughout the years, and for teaching you about your magic and stuff. But also for giving you a home when she couldn’t.”

Keith feels like he’s reeling. Light headed and dizzy. There’s a gentle burning behind his eyes, and he clears his throat to try and dissipate it.

“That’s… at least I’m not the only one being thanked.”

Hunk leans back with a grin. “Definitely not. But everyone is trying to be sneaky about their bonding moments.” He holds out his arms. “Like right now. Hug it out?”

Keith doesn’t fight it as Hunk wraps him up in a tight hug, lifting him off his feet and squeezing the life out of him. It’s bordering on uncomfortable… and yet incredibly warm and comforting all the same. He can feel Hunk’s heart and soul in it. Can feel how genuine this man is in everything he does.

And when he finally sets Keith down, he pats his shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. “It’s a bit late, but welcome to the family, man. Wanna help me frost these cupcakes?”

“Sure,” he says, and if Hunk notices the way his own eyes are getting a little glassy, or the way he sniffles, or the way his voice cracks… well, he doesn’t say anything.

Keith is pretty sure he hears Hunk sniffling, too.

* * *

All of their friends gather at their home for the summer solstice. Human, fey, and everything in-between.

Hunk and Shay are the first to arrive, helping Keith and Lance set up and prepare the food.

Shiro arrives next with a wary Adam in tow. They’ve made up and talked it out. Shiro apologized for his disappearance and distance, doing everything he can to make it up to Adam. And after they reached a good place… Shiro told Adam the truth. It had been a hard pill to swallow, but denial doesn’t really work when Shiro is able to drop his glamour and weave magic right before Adam’s very eyes.

He’s taken it all in stride. Wary, but infinitely curious. Not nearly as frightened as Keith thinks he should be, but maybe that’s a testament to the kinds of fey Shiro associates with. Their own little makeshift family isn’t too frightening.

The fact that Adam is still around is a good sign. Keith has a good feeling about them, and as strange as it is to see Shiro so head-over-heels… he likes seeing the man happy.

The rest come in waves. Pidge brings her family dog, Bae Bae. Matt arrives a little later with a half-Sylph woman he’s been seeing. Rolo, Nyma, and Beezer appear in a flash of light and shy waves. Axca and Veronica make it, coming hand-in-hand through the nearby faerie ring.

Even Allura manages to make it, telling her court she’s spending the solstice in private celebration with her two most trusted advisors, Romelle and Coran. Dragging them both with her. All three of them wrapping Lance up in tight hugs upon arrival.

Krolia comes, too. Awkward and stiff until Coran drags her into conversation.

They set up a large bonfire in their yard, surrounded by chairs to sit and lounge. They have a table full of food, protected from bugs. A cooler full of drinks: water, beer, and alcoholic faerie nectar.

All of the people they care about. All together. Wrapped up in pleasant conversation. Surrounded by good food and endless drinks. Groups of friends that have never truly interacted mingle like they’ve known each other for years.

Pidge interrogates Allura like she might Shiro, with no fear of her station, power, or the consequences. Allura indulges it, eyes alight with amusement and mischief. Romelle is fascinated by Hunk’s assimilation into human culture. Rolo drags Shay into conversation about her cafe, meanwhile Nyma listens intently to Krolia’s tales of the winter lands. Adam is left at the mercy of Coran’s exuberant personality, and Shiro merely stands with Keith, laughing silently at his boyfriend’s attempt to keep up.

Beyond it all, the three dogs play. Chasing and racing across the yard. The two blink wolves teasing Pidge’s poor hound. Until they’re all too tired and curl up, panting and exhausted.

They laugh and drink as the day stretches long into the hours of the night. The bonfire burns, even as the sun is too stubborn to fade. They revel in companionship. In the peaceful serenity of the little bubble of life Keith and Lance have made for themselves.

The biggest news comes when Hunk and Shay announce that they’ll be having a baby. Everyone cheers, a clank of bottles and glasses before a round of congratulations.

Keith watches from his seat around the bonfire, content to let others congratulate Hunk first. Lance is there now, tearing up as he hugs his best friend. He had been asked to be the child’s godfather.

“Hey,” Shiro says, lightly kicking Keith’s foot. He turns to look at the older man sitting in the chair next to him, a lazy smile on his lips, half hidden by a beer bottle.

“Hey,” he says, unable to hide a smile of his own.

“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, nudging Shiro’s foot back. “You’re still a gay disaster, but at least you’re getting somewhere.”

Shiro snorts, knocking their knees together with more force. “I could say the same about you.”

“You could, but even when I didn’t have my memory, I was less of a disaster with Lance than you are with Adam.”

A soft huff, breath humming over the opening of his bottle. “Touché.” He takes a sip and pauses, gaze thoughtful as he stares at the raging bonfire. “So… I’ve been thinking…”

“Oh, no,” Keith says dryly, earning another knock of their knees. He chuckles as Shiro rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious. I’ve been thinking… and this is still some time down the road. I don’t know what will happen with me and Adam, but I have a good feeling about it. And… one day when we’re settled— _if_ we’re settled— and if he’s okay with it… I think I want to adopt kids…” He lets out a steady breath, adding on, “Ironbloods.”

Keith looks to him, head tilted and mouth agape. “Really…?”

Shiro nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he glances sidelong, meeting Keith’s gaze with a sparkle in his eyes. “I think I did a pretty good job with you. And I think it would be nice… getting to raise some kids who lost their parents and are confused about their mixed heritage. I’d like to help them… I’d like to give them a chance.”

“Shiro, that’s…” He swallows thickly, biting back the burn behind his eyes. “That sounds great.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Come here.” He leans over in his chair, stretching out an arm and nearly toppling over.

Keith reaches for him, too. Both of them tilting their chairs as they wrap each other up in sideways hug. Shiro’s arm tightens around Keith’s shoulders, and Keith buries his face in Shiro’s neck, fist clenching in the back of his shirt.

“I think you’ll make a great dad,” he says, voice wavering and hoarse.

“Thanks, Keith.” Shiro’s voice is soft and thick. He’s never been good at hiding when he’s emotional. It just makes Keith squeeze him harder. “You’ll be the best uncle.”

They lean back, lapsing into companionable silence, smiling even as they sniffle, trying to subtly wipe at their eyes. When Adam comes over and slides into Shiro’s lap, Keith’s gaze wanders back to Hunk— only to find Coran shaking his hand excitedly and Lance no where to be found.

In fact, after a curious glance, he doesn’t see Lance anywhere around the fire.

His brows furrow, mentally and instinctively reaching inside himself— to the core of his being— finding that little thread that connects him to Lance and giving it a little tug.

He follows it without really registering. His head turning before he fully understands where he’s going to look—

There. At the edge of the woods that surround their property. Just within the tree-line. All he can see is the silhouette of a person. No details to be found, yet he gets the innate sensation that he’s being watched.

And he knows without the shadow of a doubt that it’s Lance.

Keith sets his drink aside, rising from his chair. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he says absently.

“Where are you going?” Shiro asks with a raised brow.

Keith smirks, never taking his eyes form the shadow in the woods. “Lance is trying to lure me into the forest.”

Shiro chuckles. “You know, you once promised me that you wouldn’t go chasing strange fey.”

“Good thing I can break my promises then.”

No one stops him and no one follows him as he walks across the field toward the woods. The light of the bonfire grows dim the further he goes, until he’s left in nothing but the light of the fading twilight. And as he nears the forest, the silhouette turns and dances away into the trees.

Keith feels his lips curl, heart hammering and blood heating as he picks up his pace and gives chase.

Lance runs through the woods on light feet, turning corners and sliding around trees. He dips out of sight, teasing and taunting with the light echo of his laughter drifting on a cool breeze.

Keith follows the sound of his merriment, tugged forward by the feeling wrapped around his heart. No matter where he goes, no matter how far, Keith will always be able to find him. And with the gift of his tattoo, he knows Lance will always find him, too.

Still, he revels in the chase. In the teasing chill of wind that tickles the back of his neck and tugs at his hair. In the way Lance’s laughter sends shivers down his spine. In the hope that sparks when he catches sight of Lance through the trees, his disappearance after only fueling Keith’s drive as he gives himself fully to Lance’s game.

And even if he wasn’t being pulled along— even if he didn’t always have an innate sense of where Lance is— all he would have to do is look down to find the trail of glimmering forget-me-nots dotting the way.

He’s not sure who catches who first.

He pauses when the trail runs cold. When the laughter is all around him and the flowers lead no where. When he can’t see the shape of Lance through the trees, but the feeling in his chest is telling him that he’s _right here_.

He turns at the same time Lance reaches for him.

Wrapping his arms around Lance’s waist at the same time his hands curl into the front of Keith’s shirt. Lance pulls and Keith pushes.

Together they fall in tandem, until Lance’s back is pressed tight against a tree and Keith is pressed flush to his chest.

Legs entangled.

Breaths hot and mingling.

Lance’s eyes glimmer in the faint twilight, swirling like the night sky. His glamour is gone, white freckles dancing across his cheeks like stars. Keith joins him. Lets his own glamour fade away between one breath and the next. Letting Lance see him as he truly is, just as he sees him.

Lance’s lips curl into a small, coy smile. One hand lifts to cup Keith’s jaw, thumb caressing his scar as Keith nuzzles into his palm.

“You know,” Keith says, voice a whisper caressing Lance’s wrist. “I was always told not to follow fey through the forest.”

Lance’s smile doesn’t widen, but his cheeks lift with it all the same. Those beautiful eyes dancing with amusement. His thumb moves to Keith’s lips, and Keith nibbles at it. “But you did it anyway.”

He presses a kiss to the pad of his thumb, loving how he shivers. “Can’t steal my name if you already have it.”

Lance’s eyes lower, lidded and dark as he stares at Keith’s mouth. His thumbnail taps Keith’s piercing. “I was always told to hide from ironbloods.”

Keith chuckles, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. “Yet here you are, tempting me.”

Lance’s hand slides down to rest on Keith’s chest. He tilts his head, aligning their lips and raising his chin, until Keith can feel his smile against his own. “Can’t steal my soul if you already have it.”

When they kiss, it feels like fire and smells like rain. The wind that picks up around them sends a shiver down his spine, but flames dance across his skin where they touch.

Lance’s fingers slide through his hair, cradling him close, and Keith’s arms wrap tightly around his waist, refusing even an inch to separate them.

Lance tastes rich and honeyed. Lips smooth and mouth so pliant— so willing— so soft as he moans the sweetest sounds.

And there, nestled in the chill of twilight and the heat of each other, he feels the magic dance around them. Feels it crackle in their veins and hum in the air. Summer and winter. Fire and ice. A harmony of their own making and a song that echoes in their hearts.

Beneath their feet, the earth shudders. Grass shifting as the soil twists and churns.

It starts with one… then another… followed by more.

Vines crawling across the ground, twisting around their shoes, around thick roots, filling the spaces between the trees. Stems rising— leaves sprouting and fluttering— buds forming— unfurling— blooming. Each of them shuddering with the magic that pulses through their petals, glimmering and shining in the starlight that reaches between the canopy. Until the forest floor is thick with them.

Red and blue. Woven together.

Roses and forget-me-nots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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